SLAMS 
OF  LIFE 


J.  P.  MCEVOT 


MHO. 


SLAMS  OF  LIFE 


SLAMS 
OF  LIFE 

^{alice  for  dll,  and  Charity 


Assembled  in  Tfyyme   by 

J.  P. 


*With  black  and  white  interruptions 
by 

FRANK  KING 


Published  by 
P.F.VOLLAND    COMPANY 

NEW  YORK         CHICAGO          TORONTO 


Copyright  1919 

P.  F.  Volland  Company 

Chicago,  U.  S.  A. 

(All  rights  reserved) 


Third  Edition 


In  Which  the  Author  Introduces  Himself  in  a 
Few  Well-Chosen  Words 

I  WOULD  have  had  these  verses  published  long  ago 
except  for  the  difficulty  of  finding  someone  who 
would  write  them.  Finally  I  submitted  the  job  to 
my  favorite  author  who  readily  agreed  to  write  the 
verses.  I  think  he  has  done  very  well  indeed. 

But,  perhaps,  I  am  prejudiced  in  his  favor.  It 
would  be  plausible  for  I  have  known  him  ever  since  we 
were  children  together.  What  a  cunning,  precocious 
child  he  was!  At  the  age  of  twelve  years  he  knew 
nearly  all  of  the  alphabet  and  could  count  up  to  six 
with  almost  perfect  ease. 

When  he  was  fifteen  he  could  make  change,  but  since 
then  has  had  little  opportunity  to  make  use  of  this 
valuable  knowledge. 

He  celebrated  his  twenty-first  birthday  by  completing 
a  correspondence  school  course  on  the  Slide  Trombone. 
It  was  an  easy  step  from  that  to  the  writing  of  humor 
ous  verses. 

Owing  to  the  carelessness  of  proper  authorities,  he 
met  a  publisher.  This  book  is  the  result  of  that 
meeting. 

It  is  useless  for  me  to  attempt  to  enumerate  the 
many  remarkable  features  of  this  book,  therefore  I  shall 
do  so.  In  the  first  place  you  will  notice  how  each  page 
follows  the  preceding  one.  This  is  planned  so  you  can 
skip  around  more  easily.  Secondly,  this  book  contains 
nearly  all  the  punctuation  marks  now  used  in  our  best 
broad-A  society.  Compare  the  punctuation  marks  in 
this  book  with  those  in  any  other,  no  matter  what  the 
price. 

Another  splendid  feature:  each  sentence  ends  with  a 
period.  The  publishers  are  to  be  congratulated  for 
insisting  upon  sufficient  periods  despite  the  fact  the  cost 
of  first  class  periods  has  increased  three  hundred  per 
cent  on  account  of  the  peace.  It  was  necessary  to  import 

[71 


763572 


each  period  and  some  of  them  had  very  narrow  escapes, 
indeed.  However,  it  is  with  pride  the  publishers  and  I 
assure  you  each  period  is  of  full  size  and  guaranteed 
not  to  shrink  or  lose  its  color. 

Most  of  these  verses,  I  understand,  have  appeared  in 
numerous  magazines  and  newspapers  who  are  to  be  con 
gratulated  upon  their  good  taste,  but  who  may  not  be 
mentioned  here  because  of  the  obnoxious  publicity  which 
would  accrue  to  them  thereby.  The  author  tells  me  that 
he  has  had  great  difficulty  in  keeping  these  magazines 
and  newspapers  pacified.  They  hound  him  day  and  night 
for  his  imperishable  work  and  he  spends  a  miserable 
existence  tossing  little  hunks  to  first  one  and  then  the 
other,  as  they  feed  fish  to  the  seals  in  the  circus. 

There  are  some  verses  included  which  have  never 
before  seen  the  light  of  day.  The  author  says  they 
are  good.  We  shall  see. 

Acknowledgements  are  made  to  Noah  Webster  for 
the  use  of  some  of  his  words. 

My  favorite  author  upon  completing  the  collection 
of  these  verses  asked  me  to  write  this  foreword.  As  he 
modestly  put  it:  "I  know  of  no  one  who  could  possibly 
do  it  half  so  well." 

I  believe  the  man's  right! 

J.  P.  McEvov. 


[81 


Ihis   book,    is   dedicated 

to 

JSroiher  JZaymonds  Sishr 
Friend  Wife  (Herself). 


WHEN  THE  MISSUS  GOES  AWAY 

The  grand  old  Colosseum, 

If  what  is  writ  is  true, 
Is  spraddled  over  lots  of  ground 

And  scrapes  the  starry  blue; 
But  though  'tis  vast  and  spacious 

I  humbly  rise  to  say 
My  six  room  flat  seems  twice  as  large 

When  the  Missus  goes  away. 

From  here  to  Ursa  Major 

Is  quite  a  husky  hike. 
The  Lincoln  Way  from  coast  to  coast 

Is  not  a  puny  pike, 
But  when  the  wife  is  visiting, 

And  days  drag  on  and  on, 
My  little  hall,  that  once  was  small, 

Goes  clear  to  Helangon. 

The  roaming,  rolling  ranges 

That  rove  our  mighty  west, 
The  Pampas  of  the  Argentine 

Are  lonely  at  their  best; 
But  they  are  close  and  crowded 

And  riotous  and  gay 
Compared  to  my  little  six  room  flat 

When  the  Missus  goes  away. 


[iil 


LINES  TO  A  MOVIE  VAMPIRE 

I  sing  today  the  Vampire  of  the  Movie, 

I  sing  of  Sheeza  Beara  —  and  she  is  — 
Whose  architecture  Doric 
Is  a  clutter  of  caloric 

As  she  vamps  it  in  her  transcalescent  biz; 
I  love  to  see  her  zaz  a  bit  in  Zaza, 

She  writhes,  she  lures,  she  palpitates,  she  quivahs! 
You  ask  me  has  she  got  the  props?     She  haza! 

She  agitates  my  very  lights  and  livahs! 

Them  eyes  of  hern, 
Oh  how  they  burn, 

Oh  how  they  sparkle,  snap  and  yearn! 
Them  liquid  coives, 
Oh  how  they  swoives, 
It's  pretty  doggone  hard  on  noives  .  .  . 
She  starts  .  .  .  she  moves  .  .  .  she  seems  to  feel 
The  thrill  of  life  along  her  keel  .  .  . 
A  rag,  a  bone  and  a  hank  of  hair? 
What  do  I  care? 

She's  a  bear!    She's  a  bear!     She's  a  bear! 
There! 

I  sing  today  the  Vampire  in  the  Movie 

(Them  eyes  of  hern!) 
I  tell  you  she's  a  regular  Vesuvy. 

(Oh  how  they  burn!) 
Her  agile  architecture  is  conducive  to  conjecture, 

(Them  sneaky  coives!) 

Oh  lamp  this  lyric  lecture  'fore  her  luscious  lure  has 
wrecked  your 

Throbbing  noives! 

On  yon -Paphian  piazza  you  just  ought  to  see  her  zaza, 
.Yoil  :Just  -ought  to  see  her,  Yazza! 
.fias  she  gat  the  props?     Cazazza! 
":  Bui  s~he_  haza! 

[12] 


THAT'S  A  GIFT 

"Observe  my  bean,"  the  Stranger  said, 

"Oh  slant  the  bulge  of  yonder  brow." 
"You  have,"  said  I,  "a  noble  head, 

A  sterling  coco,  I'll  allow." 
"Within  that  dome,"  the  Stranger  cried, 
Are  countless  gems  of  lambent  lore, 
A  flock  of  wisdom,  true  and  tried, 
A  mine  of  wit,  a  sapient  store. 

"Behind  my  altitudinous  brow 

A  corrugated  thinker  sits. 
It's  in  a  state  of  coma  now, 

But  gosh,  it  throws  sagacious  fits! 
For  it  is  crammed  with  all  the  dope 

Of  ev'ry  book  on  ev'ry  shelf. 
You  get  my  modest  view,  I  hope? 

I  hate  to  talk  about  myself. 

"I  know  more  art  than  any  Taine, 

More  Rome  than  Gibbon,  Greece  than  Grote, 
More  law  than  old  Sir  Henry  Maine, 

More  poetry  than  any  pote; 
I've  delved  as  deep  as  Darwin  did, 

Beside  me  Euclid  is  a  sham,  and 
Socrates  a  weanling  kid, 

I  know  more  words  than  Percy  Hammond!" 

"From  which  remarks  I  glean,"  said  I, 

"You  are  a  shrewd  and  wise  gazook, 
A  keen  and  perspicacious  guy, 

A  shining  light,  a  gumptious  gook." 
"You're  right,"  he  sighed.     "My  wondrous  brain 

Is  hep  indeed  to  all  the  ropes, 
But  still  my  heart  is  full  of  pain: 
/  cannot  pick  good  cantaloupes" 


[13] 


WHEN  WIFIE  DRIVES 

When  wifie  drives  my  little  bus 

She  throws  the  gears  in  something  thus: 

BLAM!    BANCO!!    BRRRRRRR!!! 

KERBINGO !    GRRRRRRR ! ! ! 

We  crowhop  then  across  the  street, 

And  amputate  a  copper's  feet, 

And  what  he  says  is  something  neat. 

"Oh  have  a  care,"  I  say  to  her, 

She  shifts   the  gears:     KERBANGO!    GRRRRRRR!! 

And  tries  for  third,  but  slides  in  low, 

And  runs  in  that  a  mile  or  so. 

At  last  in  third  the  auto  rolls, 
And  peaceful  peds  climb  up  the  poles; 
The  children  see  us  run  amuck 
And  get  away  —  if  they  have  luck, 
While  horses,  mules  and  dogs  and  cats 
Disperse  unto  their  sundry  flats. 

Down 

boulevards 
like 
this 

we  glide 
and 
hit 
the 
curb 
on 

either 
side, 

And  drivers  glare  and  coppers  swear, 
But  wifie  doesn't  care  a  care. 
Soon  to  the  crowded  Loop  we  snoop, 


Wherecarsarethickasonionsoup 
Andwifiehitsthelastinline 

they          theirs  get  mine 

And  get  and  I 

o    And  then  she    rt 

%  e 

<u  t; 

"S     }u§u  punojB     S 

.erehwyna  tsom  ssorca  skcab  dna 
Of  course  I  go  to  court  next  day, 

But  first 
I  drive 

Straight  home 
This  way. 


15  1 


BEWARE  OF  THE  GEEZER  WITH  SOMETHING 

TO  SELL 

When  a  hearty  fellow  hails  me  in  the  cold  and  clang 
ing  mart, 

And  slaps  me  on  the  scapula,  and  hugs  me  to  his  heart. 

And  cries,  "Your  amaranthine  verse  will  live  for  ever 
more, 

And  when  you  larrup  on  your  lute  poetic  shades  get 
sore, 

And  Homer  hangs  his  humble  head  —  he  knows  he 
has  no  chance  — 

And  Shakespeare's  ghost  goes  out  and  kicks  its  prim 
Plutonian  pants  - 

I  say,  if  any  geezer  deals  me  chatter  like  to  this, 
I  do  not  press  upon  his  brow  a  cacophonic  kiss, 
Nor  do  I  weep  with  sheer  delight,  nor  fluctuate  his  fin — 
I  coldly  look  him  in  the  eye  and  kick  him  on  the  shin, 
And  calmly  beat  it  on  my  way,  because  I  know  full 

well 
This  gonnif  has   Insurance,   Books,  or  Real   Estate   to 

sell. 

Oh,  oftentimes   a  goof  will   come  and  lean  against  my 

garb, 
And  tell  me  I'm  a  Curly  Wolf,  a  Woof-Woof,  and  a 

Darb! 
And    tell    me    that    my   smallest   squib    commands    his 

eager  glance, 
And    ditto   with    his    cousins    and    his    sisters    and    his 

aunts, 
And   he   has   pasted   all   my   gems   in   scrapbooks   rich 

and  rare, 
And  would  I  give  him  just  one  lock  of  my  ambrosial 

hair? 


[16] 


Or  if  not  that,  my  autograph;  or  if  not  that,  a  smile  — 
A  smile   from   one   as  great   as   I   he'd   treasure   for   a 

while, 
A  long,  long  while,  and  when  in  after  years  upon  his 

knee 
His  great-grandchildren  sat  he'd  say  I  smole  a  smile 

for  he. 
But  I  don't  smole  a  single  smile,  I   bounce  upon  his 

bell  — 
I   know  he  has   Insurance,   Books,   or  Real   Estate   to 

sell! 

Some   day   a   cunning   coot   will  come  with  convoluted 

conk 
And  drape  himself  upon  my  desk  and  sweetly  he  will 

honk: 
"I   do  not  like  your  line  of  dope,  I   think  it's  awful 

junk; 
Your  prose  is  quite  putrescent  and  your  verse  is  worse 

than  punk; 
You've   no   excuse   for   living   as   you   do,   a   worthless 

shirk; 
Why  don't  you  quit   this  life  of  crime   and  do  some 

honest  work?'* 

I  say,  some  day  a  cunning  coot  will  warble  thus  to  me, 
And  I'll  be  flabbergasted,  sir,  so  diff'rent  it  will  be. 
And  if  he  works  me  fast  he'll  sell  me  all   he  has  in 

stock 
Before    I'll    have    recovered    from    this    unaccustomed 

shock. 
I'll  have  to  kill  him  then,  or  else  the  secret  he  would 

tell 
To  others  with  Insurance,  Books,  or  Real  Estate  to  sell. 


[17] 


GOSH,  HOW  WE  DREAD  IT! 

They're  cleaning  house  at  my  house, 

They're  clarifying  things, 
The  rugs  have  beat  it  thither 

And  the  drapes  have  taken  wings, 
The  bed  is  in  the  cellar, 

And  the  chairs  are  in  the  yard. 
I'm  sitting  in  the  alley 

And  the  alley's  awful  hard. 

They're  cleaning  house  at  my  house, 

And  all  our  treasure  trove, 
They're  waxing  up  the  hardwood 

And  blacking  up  the  stove, 
They're  tinting  all  the  ceilings 

A  blue  —  or  maybe  pink  — 
It  has  a  wistful  odor 

That  has  put  us  on  the  blink. 

They're  cleaning  house  at  my  house, 

I  guess  it's  for  the  best; 
The  only  clothes  that  I  could  find 

This  morning  was  a  vest: 
1  guess  I  should  be  patient,  still 

I  do  object,  I  think, 
To  sleeping  in  the  bathtub 

And  eating  in  the  sink. 


[18] 


LINES  TO  AN  OLD  SCHOOLMATE 

(Dedicated  to  Sheridan  McCabe) 

My  old  schoolmate  is  sick  today, 

Back  home  here  in  our  little  town, 
And  though  around  me  children  play, 

And  lilac  blooms  are  tumbling  down, 
And  blossoms  spray  the  apple  bough, 

And  I  can  hear  the  honey  bee, 
Somehow  my  heart  is  heavy  now, 

It  doesn't  seem  like  Spring  to  me. 

In  spring  we  used  to  hook  from  school 

And  fish  all  day  in  Sugar  Crick 
Beside  some  cool  and  yellow  pool 

Where    the   grass    was    long    and    the    willows 

thick, 
Or  we'd  hunt  frogs,  would  Sherd  and  I, 

And  cook  their  legs  in  meal,  you  see, 
But  now  he's  sick  —  I  guess  that's  why 

It  doesn't  seem  like  Spring  to  me. 

If  we  could  only  tramp  the  hills 

Together  as  we  used  to  do, 
Or  dream  beside  the  pleasant  rills 

I  guess  I  wouldn't  feel  so  blue; 
But  though  the  fields  are  green  and  gay 

With  birds  to  hear  and  blooms  to  see, 
My  boyhood  pal  is  sick  today  — 

It  doesn't  seem  like  Spring  to  me. 

New  Burnside,  III. 


19] 


TO  A  STRAW  CAUBEEN 

(Hibernian  slang  for  Kelly) 

O,  straw  chapeau,  when  you  were  new, 

A  crown  of  pristine  beauty  you, 

An  argent  cloud  of  shimmering  sheen, 

A  kelly  fit  for  any  bean, 

A  nimbus  on  my  raven  fuzz, 

A  luscious  lid  —  that's  what  you  wuz, 

But  now  your  glory's  one  with  Greece, 

Your  grandeur  is  of  Rome's  a  piece; 

Your  primal  pulchritude  has  blewed 

To  vague  innocuous  desuetude. 

In  other  words,  O  straw  Caubeen, 

You're  on  the  fritz  —  that's  what  I  mean; 

An  evanescent  charm  you  had, 

Too  brief  a  time  you  made  me  glad; 

Like  to  the  poet's  poppies  spread, 

I  touched  the  bloom,  the  flower  was  dead; 

A  gem  of  snowy  charm  today, 

Tomorrow  just  a  piece  of  hay  — 

O,  adios,  farewell  to  thee, 

Good-bye,  good  luck,  and  R.I.P. 

Out  yonder  stands  a  sad-eyed  cow 

Who'll  make  a  nifty  meal  of  thou, 

And  thou,  a  one  time  snappy  dud, 

Will  presto  be  a  juicy  cud. 

A  common  fate  is  that,  alas! 

We  die  and  fertilize  the  grass 

On  which  in  sweet  contentment  browse 

A  multitude  of  grateful  cows 

Which  give  us  milk  which  once  was  we, 

And  to  ourselves,  we  drink  us  —  see? 

Straw  hat,  good-bye  and  R.I.P. 


20 


THE  PLAYER-PIANO  UPSTAIRS 

My  soul  once  was  cluttered  with  gladness  and  joy, 

My  heart  was  a  haven  of  glee; 
Each  syllable  uttered  was  larded  and  buttered 

With  gayfulness  airy  and  free. 
My  garret  cephalic  with  j aperies  Gallic 

Was  crammed  to  exclusion  of  cares, 
But  all  this  has  passed  on  the  wings  of  the  blast  — 

There's  a  player-piano  upstairs. 

And  now  ev'ry  morning  when  faint  for  repose 

I  hear  its  matutinal  fuss, 
Which  when  I  no  longer  may  slumber  grows  stronger 

And  stronger  till  madly  I  cuss, 
Yea,  bitterly  cuss  the  sarcophagus  ghoul 

Who  chauffeurs  with  murderous  fin 
Insane  permutations  of  sad  syncopations 

Accented,  I'd  say,  on  the  "sin." 

It  tortures  the  Poet  and  Peasant  all  day, 

And  Rubinstein's  Melody  F, 
And  C.  Rusticana  that  ghoulish  pian-a 

Abuses  in  every  clef. 
The  Rosary,  too,  from  its  wallops  is  blue, 

And  Killarney  it  tatters  and  tears  — 
O,  words  are  inutile  and  puerile  and  futile 

To  limn  that  piano  upstairs. 

And  that's  why  my  soul,  once  a  clutter  of  joy, 

And  my  heart  once  a  haven  of  glee, 
Are  sadly  senescent,  with  sorrow  liquescent, 

A  dunnage  of  dreary  debris. 
My  onion  cephalic  once  gayfully  Gallic 

Is  now  an  asylum  of    cares, 
My  loony  medulla,  alas!  is  the  fool-a 

That  player-piano  upstairs. 


[21] 


"TO  LET  — TENANT  WILL  SHOW" 

I  do  not  like  the  gentle  Spring — 
To  me  it  doesn't  mean  a  thing 
But  pests  who  snoop  around  our  flat 
And  look  at  this  and  finger  that 
And  question  us  on  things  that  be 
Peculiar  to  our  family  tree. 

All  day  they  gawp  at  me  and  mine, 
And  criticize  and  carp  and  whine, 
And  open  every  private  door, 
And  pass  remarks  about  the  floor, 
Or  rummage  through  the  pantry  shelves 
And  wonder  how  we  feed  ourselves. 

"Do  you  get  heat  and  lots  of  air?" 
And  "Will  they  put  new  paper  there?" 
And  "What's  inside  that  other  room?" 
And  "Ain't  the  kitchen  like  a  tomb?" 
And  "How  many  children  have  you  got? 
They're  such  a  care"  —  and  all  that  rot. 

They  count  our  silver,  lift  our  rugs, 

And  speak  of  roaches,  flies  and  —  other  forms 

of  animal  life, 

And  when  they  leave,  they  send  their  friends  - 
The  dam  procession  never  ends. 
That's  why  I  sadly  rise  and  sing  — 
I  do  not  like  the  gentle  Spring. 


[22] 


THE  LANGUAGE  OF  CHILDHOOD 

We  talk  a  curious  language,  now,  around  our  happy  home; 
The  casual  stranger  thinks  that  we're  gaflooey  in  the  dome. 
The  neighbors  say:  "Those  McEvoys  are  going  off 

their  nut; 

They  pull  the  durndest  line  of  talk."  And  we  admit  it;  but 
We  have  to  dress  our  parlance  now  in  baby-proof 

disguise; 
We  have  to  watch  our  step   these  days;  our  child  is 

getting  wise. 

When   shades   of  night   are   falling   fast,   as   some   one 

quaintly  said, 

I  used  to  blurt  it  out  like  this:  "Let's  put  the  kid  to  bed." 
But  now  I  dare  not  say  them  words,  them  words  I 

dare  not  say, 
For  when  she  hears  me  mention  "bed,"  there's  simply 

heltopay, 

And  so  I  have  to  do  it  thus  —  I  speak  in  accents  clear: 
"Let's  p-u-t  B-a-b-y  to  b-e-d,  my  dear." 

"Please  pass  the  s-u-g-a-r,"  conserves  a  lot  of  spunk. 
If  we  said  "sugar,"  Dorothy  May  would  have  to  have 

a  hunk. 

I  dare  not  say,  "Let's  beat  it  out  and  see  a  movie  show." 
I  spell:  "M-o-v-i-e-s;  let's  you  and  me  g-o." 
And  visitors  are  startled  some  at  our  peculiar  cry: 
"H-a-v-e  some  g-u-m  or  c-a-n-d-y." 

It's  shameful  how  her  mother  puts  it  over  one  so  wee, 

With  "G-o-i-n-g   today   to  s-t-o-r-e," 

Or  "W-a-t-c-h  her  pout;  she's  going  to  c-r-y." 

I  think  that  she  suspects  us  now;  she's  getting  pretty  sly. 

At   any   rate   this   spelling   stuff  has   grown   on   me,   I 

guess, 
For  yesterday  to  "Have  a  drink?"  I  answered  "Y-e-s." 


[24] 


PREPAREDNESS  PLUS 

I  differ  with  the  prophet  who  declares  we're  on  the  bum. 
That  when  it  comes  to  fighting  we're  the  residue  and 

scum; 

We  may  not  have  a  navy  that  amounts  to  30  cents. 
Our   army  may   be   full   of  prunes   and   apertures   and 

vents, 

But  what  care  we  for  armies  or  for  navies  or  for  guns? 
For  ammunition,  strategy,  or  even  sturdy  sons? 
No  enemy  would  dare  to  harm  our  humble  habitats; 
We'd  tell  our  William  Farnum  and  he'd  kick  'em  in  the 

slats. 

For  have  you  seen  our  Farnum  slap  an  engine  off  the 

track, 
And  chase  a  mob  to  helangon  and  sometimes  half-way 

back? 

And  have  you  seen  him  stand  a  king  upon  his  royal  ear, 
And  beat  a  faithful  army  to  a  palpitating  smear? 
How  gracefully  he  hits  a  big  gazabo  on  the  nose 
And  presto!  undertakers  and  some  flowers  and  repose! 
So  do  not  fear  the  English  or  the  German  or  the  Jap, 
Just   notify   Bill   Farnum   and   he'll   chase   'em   off  the 

map. 

Then  let  us  offer  up  our  thanks  that  this  is  even  thus, 
Let's  thank  a  kindly  Providence  for  taking  care  of  us, 
For  handing  us  a  Farnum  to  protect  our  kith  and  kin, 
A  Farnum  who  can  give  the  foe  a  swift  one  on  the 

chin. 

For  should  a  foreign  country  grow  pernickity  or  raw, 
We'll  laugh  our  girlish  tee  hee  hee  and  likewise  haw 

haw  haw. 
Have  we  not  William  Farnum  to  defend  the  mountain 

pass? 
We  have,  and  William  Farnum,  girls,  can  run  'em  out 

of  gas. 

[25] 


WELL,  MEBBE  SO  — I   DUNNO 

They  tell  me  these  here  Fourteen  Points 

Will  pacify  the  war-like  joints, 

That  there  won't  be  no  war  no  more, 

An'  no  more  gas  an'  guns  an'  gore, 

An'  all  the  pugilistic  hicks 

Will  put  away  their  knives  and  bricks  - 

Well,  mebbe  so, 

I  dunno. 

They  tell  me  that  this  here,  now,  League 
Will  put  an  end  to  all  intrigue, 
That  all  the  birds  on  land  an'  sea 
Will  in  their  little  nests  agree, 
An'  'stead  of  treating  others  rough 
Will  bill  an'  coo,  an'  all  that  stuff, 

Well,  mebbe  so, 

I  dunno. 

The  Bolshevik,  I'm  told  by  some, 

Is  not  so  altogether  rum, 

An'  others  say  the  geek's  a  curse, 

While  still  more  say  he  aint  so  worse, 

An'  some  say  this,  an'  some  say  that  — 

Do  all  these  guys  know  where  they're  at? 

Well,  mebbe  so, 

I  dunno. 

"It  is  the  war"  they  told  us  guys 
When  all  the  prices  hit  the  skies, 
An'  now  when  prices  still  increase, 
These  eggs  retort:  "It  is  the  peace"; 
Some  cry  "Supply!"    -some  yell  "Demand!" 
They  say  we  boobs  can't  understand, 

Well,  mebbe  so, 

I  dunno. 


26] 


BAWP-BAWP-BAWP-BAWP-PA 

I've  heard  the  sweet  song  of  Enrico  Cams', 
And  the  silver  chin-chinning  that  Bryan  can  loose, 
And  the  soothing  palaver  that  falls  on  the  ear 
When  a  son  of  old  Erin  is  throwing  the  queer; 
The  lorelei  lure  of  the  larynx  de  luxe 
May  tweak  the  tympana  of  garrulous  gooks, 
But  sweet  as  syllabical  silver  can  be 
It  sounds  like  an  oyster  in  pain  by  the  sea, 
For  today  my  young  Dorothy  Mary  McE., 
Said  "  Bawp-bawp-bawp-bawp-bawp-bawp-BAWP-pa" 
to  me. 

The  Greeks  in  their  time  had  of  talkers  a  score 

Who  slung  a  mean  syllable  over  the  floor, 

Isaeus,  Aeschines,  Demosthenes,  too 

Bounced  words  off  the  welkin  until  it  was  blue, 

But  great  as  Isaeus  —  and  take  it  from  Pliny 

He  had  it  on  Sunday,  Bert  Williams  and  Tinny  — 

And  great  as  Demosthenes,  down  by  the  sea, 

Whose  words  were  as  verdure  that  leans  on  the  lea, 

They  pale  before  Dorothy  Mary  McE, 

For  now  she  says*  'Bawp-bawp-bawp-BAWP-pa"  to  me. 

I  hope  when  I  turn  in  at  last  for  The  Sleep, 

And  flit  up  the  ladder  so  golden  and  steep, 

St.  Peter  will  give  me  a  seat  in  the  rear  — 

The  gall'ry  will  do,  where  I'll  sit  down  and  hear. 

(Can  angels  sit  down?)  Well,  no  matter,  I'll  sit 

And  hark  while  the  cherubim  warble  a  bit. 

No  doubt  'twill  be  grand  —  they've  had   practice,   you 

see, 

But  all  them  there  Cherubim  singing  their  glee 
Won't  tug  at  my  heart,  nor  as  sweet  will  it  be 
As  when  she  says  "Bawp-bawp-bawp-BAWP-pa"  to 

me. 


[27] 


THE  GIRLS  OF  TODAY 

I  wonder  why  the  flappers  wear 
That  tired,  bored  and  sated  air, 
Why  ennui  sits  upon  their  brows 
And  nothing  can  their  spirits  rouse; 
Dispassionate  and  blank  their  gaze, 
And  laissez-faire  their  weary  ways. 

Chic  little  chits  who  yesterday 

Were  giggling  in  their  girlish  way 

Are  now  sophisticated  vamps 

With  sinful,  soulful,  sea-green  lamps; 

They've  lived  and  suffered,  Oh!  so  much! 

And  life  is  a  dead  sea  fruit  they  touch. 

So  would  the  average  man  surmise 
From  the  hollow  stare  of  their  browless  eyes. 
"These,"  he  would  say,  "have  played  and  lost, 
They've  shook  with  fate  and  paid  the  cost; 
One  by  one  in  the  awful  gloom 
They've  followed  their  hopes  to  a  sunless  tomb, 
There  in  the  desolate  dust  to  lay 
The  dear,  dead  dreams  of  their  yesterday." 

These  lidless,  lifeless  saurian  stares 
That  meet  your  gaze  on  the  thoroughfares, 
That  chill  your  soul  in  the  milling  mart, 
That  numb  your  brain  and  freeze  your  heart; 
Do  they  bespeak  the  souls  within  — 
Sodden  souls  of  soil  and  sin? 

Ah,  no,  these  children  look  blase 
'Cause  Theda  Bara  looks  that  way; 
And  life  evokes  a  weary  smile 
Because,  just  now,  it  is  the  style; 
They  all  mean  well,  the  little  dears 
But  some  one  ought  to  pull  their  ears. 


[28] 


SHOWING  UP  THE  CARTOONERS 

I  have  seen  a  wistful  victim 

Gaily  belted  on  the  attic 
For  a  minor  indiscretion 

Or  a  sentiment  erratic; 
I  have  seen  him  castigated 

With  a  dornick  on  the  bean, 
With  a  mission-freighted  missile 

Shunted  swiftly  o'er  the  scene; 
I  have  watched  the  pert  pulsations 

Of  a  vibratory  bludgeon 
On  the  flat  cephalic  onion 

Of  a  turbulent  curmudgeon, 
But  he  never  did  his  exit, 

Oh,  he  never  did,  I  swear! 
As  the  cute  cartooners  draw  him: — 

With  his  feet  up  in  the  air. 

I  have  seen  a  fellow-mortal 

Do  a  brodie  in  the  drink, 
Take  a  header  in  the  dampness, 

Try  a  Kellerman  and  sink, 
Yea,  go  down  as  would  a  biscuit 

Manufactured  by  a  bride, 
Coming  back  to  see  the  surface 

With  some  bubbles  on  the  side; 
I  have  seen  a  fellow-mortal 

Go  beneath  the  lapping  wave 
To  what  fancy  fiction  writers 

Deftly  call  a  "watery  grave," 
I  have  seen  him  drown  completely  — 

Rotten  luck! — but  here's  the  rub: 
When  he  struggled  to  the  surface 

He  did  NOT  remark  "Glub  glub." 


[29] 


THE  WIFIE'S  NOSE  FOR  NEWS 

If  the  Joneses  get  a  baby  or  the  Johnsons  get  the  pip, 

Or  the  Smithses  have  another  family  fight; 
If  the  girl  across  the  alley  gets  a  husband  or  the  grippe, 

I  will  have  the  why  and  what  of  it  tonight; 
For  my  wife  knows  when   a   tenant  and   the  landlord 
have  a  jam, 

And  why  the  man  next  door  is  death  on  booze, 
She  is  jerry  to  the  gossip,  she  is  hep  to  all  what  am, 

For  wifie  has  a  nimble  nose  for  news; 
So  she  has, 

A  nimble,  neat  and  nifty  nose  for  news! 

Does   Tom   Jollicks   come   home   pickled   she    can    tell 

you  when  and  why, 

And  the  price  they  soaked  Miss  Smithers  for  that  lid, 
Where  did  Sarah  Whatyoucallit  get  that  shanty  on  her 

eye? 

Did  her  husband  give  her  that?     You  bet  he  did. 
Where  does  Mrs.  Beecher  go  (shrug!  shrug!)  and  spend 

her  afternoons? 

Why  do  Arnolds  have  to  live  on  oyster  stews? 
Who   had   tea  with   Mrs.   Fletcher  and   departed  with 

her  spoons? 
Ask  my  wife,  she's  got  the  nimble  nose  for  news! 

Yea,  bo! 
A  most  uncanny,  nifty  nose  for  news. 

O,  she  knows  that  Mrs.  Julip  has  to  rouge  and  wears 

a  wig, 

And  Miss  Rooney's  shape  was  purchased  in  a  store, 
That  a  young  and  handsome  doctor  calls  a  lot  on  Mrs. 

Figg 

(And  she  so  healthy,  too)  —  but  say  no  more! 
And  the  Gores  are  sharps  at  poker,  well,  in  fact  they 
play  to  eat, 


30] 


And  the  clubs  have  sued  that  stuck-up  Smythe  for 

dues, 

O,  the  information  bureau  in  my  home  is  hard  to  beat, 
And  harder  still  my  wifie's  nose  for  news! 

Some  nose! 
Her  nimble,  neat  and  nifty  nose  for  news! 

So  I  warn  you  all,  my  neighbors,  I  am  wise  to  all  you 

do, 

I  am  jerry  to  the  whyness  of  your  which, 
It  is  vain  to  flaunt  pretensions,  for  I  know  your  sala 
ries,  too, 

And  I  know  if  you  are  poor  or  if  you're  rich; 
I  know  all  your  secret  sorrows,  all  your  loves  and  all 

your  hates, 

All  your  problems,  your  successes,  and  your  blues; 
What  your  wife  has  told  my  wifie  to  me  nightly  she 

relates, 
And  she's  got  a  keen,  uncanny  nose  for  news; 

So  she  has! 
A  nimble,  neat  and  nifty  nose  for  news! 


[31! 


BITTER  LINES  TO  A  NON-SKID 
AUTO  SALESMAN 

You  hound  of  hell,  you're  on  my  trail, 

You  hunt  me  night  and  day, 
You  dog  my  weary  footsteps 

In  a  pestilential  way. 
You  haunt  my  busy  office,* 

You  hang  around  my  home, 
I  cannot  shake  you  off  my  track, 

No  matter  where  I  roam. 

I  met  you  at  the  auto  show 

And  foolishly  I  cried, 
'Your  car  looks  pretty  good  to  me," 

And  then  I  crawled  inside. 
A  wolfish  gleam  lit  up  your  eyes, 

Your  fangs  were  crool  and  white, 
How  happy  I'd  be  now  if  I 

Had  wrung  your  neck  that  night. 

For  day  and  night  from  that  day  on 

You  call  me  on  the  phone, 
Sometimes  you  hunt  with  other  ghouls 

But  mostly  hunt  alone. 
You  send  me  letters,  postal  cards, 

And  cables  and  dispatches, 
In  avalanches,  groups  and  scads, 

In  bunches,  bales  and  batches. 

You  non-skid  auto  salesman,  you, 

You  grim  rapacious  spectre, 
Oh  take  your  beak  from  out  my  heart, 

Your  form  from  out  my  sector. 
Disperse,  begone  and  leave  me  be, 

My  life  no  longer  mar; 
I  do  not  want  your  gol  darn  bus, 

I  do  not  want  your  car. 

*Adv. 

[32] 


REMARKS  ON  BABY  SHOES 

Every  morning  —  or  at  least  'most  every  morning  — 

As  I  beat  it  to  the  cold  and  clanging  mart 
To  annex  the  beer  and  skittles  that  comprise  my  daily 

vittles 

Comes  a  warning  from  the  wifie  of  my  heart; 
Comes  a  warning  and  a  tocsin  and  a  message 

With  a  frequency  that  nullifies  the  news; 
"There  was  something  for   today  —  Let  me  see  —  Oh, 

by  the  way 

The  baby  needs  another  pair  of  shoes." 
"Shoes?"  says  I 
"Shoes?"  says  she, 
"The  baby  needs  another  pair  of  shoes." 

Now,  the  petals  of  the  poppy  bloom  are  fleeting 

And  the  beaded  bubbles  vanish  on  the  brim, 
And  my  weekly  compensation  knows  a  rapid  dessication 

Quite  inimical  to  vigor,  verve  and  vim; 
There's  a  transitory  value  to  the  plaudit, 

And  ephemeral  the  honor  that  ensues, 
But  the  absolute  quintessence  of  the  perfect  evanescence 

Are  those  frail  and  fragile  things  called  baby  shoes. 
Ain't  it  the  truth? 

Those  pale  and  puerile,  weak,  ethereal  shoes. 

Oh,  the  shoes  I  blindly  buy  for  sturdy  leather 

They  are  fashioned  from  the  wings  of  butterflies, 
And  are  merely  held  together  by  some  forecasts  on  the 
weather 

And  some  female  no's  and  other  kinds  of  lies; 
And  they  vanish  like  the  eggs  of  Easter  Sunday, 

And  they  disappear  in  bevies,  squads  and  slews, 
Yes  sir,  tempus  sure  can  fugit  I  will  grant  you, 

But  it  hasn't  got  a  thing  on  baby  shoes. 
Alas,  no, 

It  hasn't  got  a  thing  on  baby  shoes. 


[331 


A  MODERN  ROMANCE 

(I'll  say  it  is) 

The  sun  was  setting  in  the  West, 
A  quaint  old  custom  it  has  got, 

Belasco  batting  at  his  best 

Could  not  have  picked  a  better  spot. 

He  drew  her  close  and  closer  yet, 

And  closer  still  he  drew  and  drew, 

'I  love  you  Aniline,"  he  cried, 

'Do  you  love  me?"  and  she  replied 
"I'll  say  I  do!" 

And  hours  passed  and  in  the  sky 
The  argent  moon  on  pallid  feet 

Stole  softly  through  the  clouds  on  high 

(I  think  those  first  three  lines  are  neat), 

And  then  he  said,  "I  love  you,  dear, 
"My  heart  is  beating  fit  to  kill, 

Oh  tell  me  that  you'll  marry  me," 

And  soft  and  low  she  said  to  he, 
"I'll  say  I  will." 

And  so  to  church!    Oh,  bellsome  morn, 
And  Oh,  the  lovely  glad  array, 

The  victim  pale  and  slightly  worn, 

The  bride,  of  course,  and  why  not?  —  gay. 

The  preacher  pried  his  book  apart 
And  read  a  fatal  line  or  two. 

"Do  you,"  says  he,  "take  this  here  guy?" 

And  sweet  and  clear  was  her  reply: 
"I'll  say  I  do!" 

P.  S.     I'll  say  she  did! 


[341 


BjJ^K/^V^C5.^; 

IWS^P^ 

tf&#  -iZfrji.  fe^£tL+3**5a& 


WHAT  THE  AVERAGE  MAN  THINKS 

There  are  topics  more  impressive  I  will  grant  you, 

There  are  subjects  more  instructive,  too,  I  know; 
Hypothetical  abstractions  which  appeal  to  sundry  fac 
tions 

On  the  wherewith  and  the  why-such  and  the  so; 
Subject-matter  categoric,  pedagogic  and  historic, 

Oh  they  clutter  up  the  tomes  upon  the  shelf; 
All  this  wondrous  information 
I  should  use  in  conversation, 
But- 

I  much  prefer  to  talk  about  myself. 

It  is  true  that  they  are  fighting  in  the  trenches, 

And  a  spot  has  been  discovered  on  the  sun, 
That    the    trains    are    running    largo    since    the    recent 
freight  embargo 

And  the  ban  is  on  the  bottle  and  the  bun; 
And  I  guess  I  should  discuss  them  on  the  corners, 

And  gibber  on  the  Ghibelline  and  Guelph, 
I  should  give  them  cogitation 
When  I  sling  the  conversation, 

But,  I  much  prefer  to  talk  about  myself. 

I  could  talk  of  Homer,  Euclid,  Taine  and  Plato, 

Aristotle,  Sophocles  and  Eddie  Poe, 
I    could   make   some   fancy   passes   on   osmosis   of  the 

gasses 

And  a  lot  of  other  trinkets  that  I  know; 
I  could  talk  of  old  Directum  and  the  well-known  Solar 

Spectrum 

And  Hypotenuses,  Chlorophyl  and  Pelf, 
But  there's  nothing  in  creation 
That  so  fills  me  with  elation 

As  to  sit  around  and  talk  about  myself, 

Just  me! 
For  I  dearly  love  to  talk  about  myself. 


[36! 


A  PLEA  FOR  CHICAGO  HUSBANDS 

A  husband  of  the  local  sort 

Is  not  a  handsome  guy, 
He  is  an  injury  and  a  tort 

To  almost  any  eye; 
But  though  the  poor  benighted  pup 

Has  neither  charm  nor  vim, 
He  begs  you  not  to  shoot  him  up 

For  life  is  sweet  to  him. 

The  members  grf  the  husband  clan, 

If  taken  by  and  large, 
(And  they  are  "taken"  to  the  man) 

Are  graceful  like  a  barge, 
And  haven't  half  the  mental  weight 

That  any  wife  has  got, 
But  still  they  firmly  deprecate 

This  thing  of  being  shot. 

This  casual,  offhand  sorter  way 

Chicago  wives  have  found 
Of  winding  up  a  perfect  day 

By  chasing  hubby  'round 
With  forty-fours  that  tear  a  hole 

At  least  two  feet  across, 
And  leave  a  husband,  rest  his  soul! 

A  sad  and  total  loss. 

An  open  season  once  a  year 

When  husbands  could  be  shot, 
As  in  the  case  of  game  and  deer 

Would  be  a  happier  lot, 
But  wives,  we  beg  you  hesitate, 

Your  daily  shooting  cease, 
For  we  would  like  to  molt  and  mate 

And  raise  our  young  in  peace. 

[371 


GETTING  EVEN 

The  Russians  sent  a  caviar,  the  Germans  sent  a  carp 

And  Italians  the  sinuous  spaghet', 
The  English  sent  a  sparrow 
So  our  feelings  he  could  harrow 

And  the  Spaniards  shipped  a  Spanish  om-e-let; 
And  from  France  they  eased  a  dressing 
That's  no  apostolic  blessing, 

And  the  Greeks  a  Grecian  bend   that  made  us  sick, 
And  from  Scotland  came  the  thistle,  and  a  lotion   for 

our  whistle, 

So  America  retorted  with  the  pic,  moving  pic, 
And  with  Chaplin  and  his  custard  and  his  brick. 

From  the  Mexican  con  carne  with  the  accent  on  the  con; 

From  the  Cossack,  curse  his  heart!  we  got  the  boot, 
And  the  blouses  from  the  Bulgar, 
Chromotogenous  and  vulgar, 

And  the  Hielands  gave  us  golluf  and  the  hoot; 
From  New-found-land  came  the  codfish, 
An  extremely  oily  odd  fish, 

And  Vienna  furnished  waltzes  sad  and  sweet, 
So  for  all  this  provocation,  we,  in  grim  retaliation, 

Gave  them  Theda  Bara's  vamp  and  Charley's  feet, 
Rather  neat! 

Charley's  custard  pie,  his  padded  brick  and  feet. 

The  Japanese  assaulted  us  with  Fujiyama  prints, 

And  the  Chinaman  with  suey  a  la  chop, 
And  with  holeses  full  of  wheezes 
Came  the  little  Swisses  Cheeses, 

While  the  Hessians  furnished  flies  for  every  crop; 
Hung'ry  gave  us  of  her  goulash 
Which  is  nourishing  but  foulash, 

While  old  Ireland  gave  the  shamrock  and  the  stick! 
So  in  sweet  reciprocation,  we  arose,  a  mighty  nation, 

And  repaid  the  bunch  with  Chaplin's  padded  brick, 
Padded  brick, 

Yes,  with  Charley's  custard  pie  and  padded  brick. 

[38] 


THE  HIGH  COST  OF  LICKER 

It  used  to  be  that  one  could  get  a  mellow  point  of  view 
From  beaker,  cask,  or  bottle  for  a  dollar,  say,  or  two; 
That  one  could  purchase  comfort  and  nepenthe  by  the 

quart, 

And  the  bill  would  not  resemble  a  statistical  report; 
One  didn't  have  to  float  a  loan  or  sacrifice  the  crop 
To  get  that  swell  reaction  where  you  want  to  kiss  a  cop; 
The  weekly  snub  would  buy  enough  to  clutter  up  the 

house, 
But  now  it  takes  a  millionaire  to  underwrite  a  souse. 

The  bibber  of  the  bottle  and  the  chauffer  of  the  can 
Was  once  a  lowly  member  of  a  poor  benighted  clan, 
And  the  clergy  climbed  his  lattice  with  avidity  and  vim, 
And    they   brayed   him   in    the   mortar   of   the   potent 

paradigm; 
But    the    beacon    on    the    beezer    and    the    inspissated 

speech, 
Once   the  signs  of  destitution,   now   a   different   moral 

teach  — 
Now   to   see   a  lushy  geezer  makes  my  jealous   pangs 

arouse, 
For  today  it  takes  a  millionaire  to  underwrite  a  souse. 

So,  reader,  should  you  notice  as  you  walk  along  the 

street 

A  man  who  seems  to  suffer  with  impediment  of  feet, 
A  man  who   stops   before  you   with   a  light   and   airy 

mien 

And  presents  you  to  a  tiger  with  a  polka-dotted  bean, 
Do  not  eye  him  cold  and  distant,  do  not  bash  him  on 

the  hat, 

For  today  the  malted  mammal  is  the  true  aristocrat; 
He  may  be  the  squiffy  scion  of  an  old  and  honored 

house  — 
Today  it  takes  a  millionaire  to  underwrite  a  souse. 


[39] 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  MOVIE  VAMP 

I  am  the  Moving  Picture  Vamp,  insidious  and  tropical, 
The  Lorelei  of  celluloid,  the  lure  kaleidoscopical, 
Calorific  and  sinuous,  voluptuous  and  canicular, 
And    when    it    comes    to    picking    pals,    I    ain't    a    bit 
particular. 

At  times  I  loll  in  languid  ease,  at  others  I  am  squirm- 

ical, 

My  art  is  anatomical  and  also  epidermical. 
I  vamp  the  silly  single  cuss,  I  also  vamp  the  married 

man, 
The  placid,  the  tempestuous,  the  satisfied  and  harried 

man. 

My  eyes  are  long  delirious  eyes,   liquescent  eyes   and 

luminious, 
And  when  you  look  in  them  you  feel  just  like  you're  in 

a  stewminous. 
I  send  a  ripple  down  your  keel,  I  agitate  your  livah, 

sir  — 
For   I    am   most   equivocal  —  with    the   accent   on    the 

quivah,  sir  — 

In    short,    I    am    the    movie    vamp,    the    sheezabeara 

tropical, 

The  Scylla  of  the  celluloid,  the  lorelei  vox  popical, 
In  turns  I  am  demoniac,  appealing,  sly  and  clerical, 
Ambiguous,  sophisticated,  wistful  and  hysterical 
But  mostly  you  will  find  that  I'm  extremely  tom-and- 

jerrycal. 


[40] 


LINES  TO  SUMMER  FURS 

Absquatulating  all  night  and  day 
Along  the,  well,  as  you  might  say,  way 
Around  their  cervical  vertebrae 

I  see  the  ladies 
Wear  furs,  that  look,  I  rise  to  say 

Like  Hades. 

Why  the  gazelles  should  sport  the  coy 
And  epidermical  pride  and  joy 
Of  our  zoological  hoi  polloi 

In  such  a  silly 
Inconsequential,  insipid  toy 

Is  one  on  Willie. 

The  fair,  in  a  manner  of  speaking,  sex 
Would  bounce  on  the  unregenerate  necks 
Of  the  soulless,  heartless  masculine  wrecks 

Who  said  that  furses 
Impugn  the  existence  of  intellects 

In  she's  and  herses. 

But  the  echinated,  hispidulous  stole 

Of  cuticle  swiped  from  squirrel  and  mole, 

Siberian  hound  and  tabby  (pole) 

Is  a  good  credential, 
And  proof  sufficient  that  fashion's  goal 

Is  non-essential. 


LINES   OF  ENTREATY  TO  FRIEND  WIFE 

Miss  Venus  (I  have  it  direct  from  the  bard) 

Was  bookoo  bambina,  considerable  pard, 

A  luscious  collection,  a  larrupin'  lass, 

A  lallapaloosa,  an  armful  of  class, 

And  crammed  and  suffused  with  perfections,  I  hear 

A  36-28-42  dear. 

But  think  you  Miss  Venus  would  shine  in  the  mob 

If  poets  had  seen  her  eat  corn  on  the  cob? 

Young  Dido,  I'm  told,  was  a  coruscant  coot, 
A  cunning  chiquita,  a  darb,  and  a  beaut, 
The  poets  were  loud  in  their  praises  of  she, 
Especially  Virgil,  Oh,  rabid  was  he, 
But  granting  her  speed  and  no  cylinders  missin', 
And  grant  her  deserving  a  stop,  look  and  listen, 
Still  Dido,  the  pippin,  would  look  like  a  slob 
If  she  were  observed  eating  corn  on  the  cob. 

And  Helen  of  Troy  had  speed,  curves,  and  control, 
Full  many  a  geezer  she  knocked  for  a  goal, 
But  she  wasn't  hep  to  the  succulent  maize, 
Which  fact,  I  contend,  vastly  bettered  her  ways; 
For  who  could  attribute  charm,  beauty,  or  grace 
To  a  girl  one  has  seen  eating  corn  with  her  face? 
So  wife  of  my  buzzum,  pay  heed  to  this  blob 
And  don't,  I  implore  you,  eat  corn  on  the  cob. 


[42] 


A  SLAM  ON  SLAMS 

When  weaving  ruminative  rimes 

To  soothe  the  drowsy  Sunday  ear, 
'Tis  quite  convenient  at  times 

To  have  a  tangible  idear  — 
To  hold  a  figment,  say  of  thought, 

A  sop  of  sense,  a  feeble  fact 
On  which  a  stanza  may  be  wrought 

And  rows  of  running  words  be  racked. 

As  I  remarked,  exuding  verse 

Of  scintillating  smack  and  snap 
In  fabrication  ain't  so  worse 

When  there's  a  core  of  sense  to  wrap, 
Or  flock  of  rare  afflatus  swish 

From  out  the  azure,  so  to  speak, 
And  lure  poetical  ambish 

To  zam  the  zither  on  the  beak. 

As  hinted  in  the  lines  above, 

The  larrup  of  the  lyric  lay 
Is  consomme  for  any  cove 

With  something  on  his  mind  to  say; 
But  when  his  gears  are  full  of  grime, 

And  when  he  feels  his  engine  miss, 
He  merely  grabs  some  words  that  rime 

And  rattles  off  a  verse  like  this. 


[43] 


NEVER  ARGUE  WITH  A  WOMAN 

I   remember  when   my   father   spoke   these  wondrous 

words  to  me: 
Never  argue  with  a  woman;  it  will  be  the  death  of 

thee; 
They  are  full  of  conversation,  they  are  cluttered  up 

with  speech, 
And  their  talk  is  as  the  beating  of  the  breakers  on 

the  beach. 
Socrates,    the   wisest   human,    though   he   tried   it   all 

his  life, 
Never  won  a  single  verdict  when  he  argued  with  his 

wife." 
But  I  answered:  "Dad,  you're  flooey,  you  are  vacant 

in  the  pan. 

Women    cannot   reason    clearly  —  so    they   can't   out- 
argue  man." 

O,  I  really  thought  they  couldn't, 
I  was  pretty  sure  they  couldn't; 
In  fact,  I  knew  they  couldn't  — 
But  they  can! 

Yes,  the  female  of  the  species  is  more  deadly  with 

the  chin, 
And   the   way   they   sling   the   chatter   is   a   grievous, 

mortal  sin. 

They  will  talk  on  any  subject  on  the  slightest  prov 
ocation 
And  when  differed  with  attack  you  with  extravagant 

elation; 
If  you're  wrong  they'll  quickly  right  you,  if  you're 

right  you  must  be  wrong, 
Therefore,  don't  be  slow  to  say  so,  say  it  quick  and 

make  it  strong, 
For    they'll    argue,    yawp,    and    chatter,    'till    you're 

dizzy,  dazed  and  ill, 


[441 


And  you'd  barter  your  salvation  for  a  cure  to  keep 
'em  still. 

O,  I  used  to  think  they  wouldn't, 
I  was  pretty  sure  they  wouldn't, 
In  fact,  I  knew  they  wouldn't, 
But  they  will! 

'Never  argue  with  a  woman,"  I  recall  those  words  so 

well. 
They  will  talk  you  to  a  frazzle,  they  will  talk  you  to 

a  jell. 

Though   their  logic   may   be  looney   and   their  syllo 
gisms  punk, 
And   their  premises   be   rotten,   their   conclusions   full 

of  bunk, 
And  your  dope  authoritative  and  of  stuff  they  never 

heard, 
They  will  quickly  prove  you're  crazy  and  your  line 

of  talk  absurd; 
And  they'll  dearly  love  to  do  it,  love  to  talk  you  up 

a  flue, 
Talk  and  talk  and  talk  and  chatter  'till  your  mind 

is  full  of  goo. 

I  used  to  think  they  didn't, 
I  was  pretty  sure  they  didn't, 
In  fact,  I  knew  they  didn't, 
But  they  do! 


[45] 


THE  CRIME  WAVE 

I  know  we  have  policemen  here, 

In  this,  our  lovely  town, 
Because  I  see  them  frequently 

Meandering  aroun', 
And  now  and  then,  when  I  have  time 

To  read  the  thrilling  news, 
I  see  where  they  have  just  unearthed 

A  brand  new  batch  of  clues. 

A  bank  was  robbed  the  other  day, 

I  mean  another  one, 
And  all  the  bandits  got  away, 

With  all  the  checks  and  mon. 
But  our  police  were  on  the  job, 

(They  never  nap  nor  snooze) 
And  in  a  week  or  two  they  had 

A  lot  of  lovely  clues. 

Most  every  night  a  citizen, 

Returning  from  his  job, 
Is  overtaken  by  a  crook 

And  hammered  on  the  nob. 
But  who  could  seriously  regret 

The  valuables  they  lose, 
When  well  they  know  that  in  return 

They'll  get  a  lot  of  clues? 

Some  people  sneeringly  deride 

The  system  here  in  play 
Of  letting  all  the  thieving  thugs 

Go  thugging  on  their  way. 
They  say  that  our  policemen  shirk, 

But  those  are  not  my  views, 
I  know  the  cops  are  on  the  job  — 

Just  look  at  all  the  clues. 

[46] 


MY  WIFE'S  BROTHER  RAYMOND 

Perhaps  you  imagined  Napoleon  was  class, 
And  Alex  the  Great  might  get  in  on  a  pass, 
And  Little  George  Wash1  was  a  lala,  and  so 
Were  Caesar  and  Lincoln  and  Newton  and  Poe, 
If  you  did,  just  forget  it  —  they're  all  on  the  shelf; 
They  don't  class  with  Raymond, 

My  wife's  brother  Raymond, 
He's  got  them  all  faded  —  she  says  so  herself. 

I  harbored  delusions  that  Shakespeare  could  write, 
That  Euclid  could  figure  and  Hector  could  fight, 
That  Bach  could  compose  and  that  Chopin  could  play, 
And  Angelo  sculpture  and  paint  any  day; 
But  I  was  mistaken,  I  freely  confess: 
They  don't  class  with  Raymond, 

My  wife's  brother  Raymond, 
He  does  all  of  those  things  —  only  better,  my  yes! 

One  day  I  took  wifie  to  hear  Elman  play, 
"Reminds  me  of  Raymond,"  she  said  right  away, 
And  when  Paderewski  had  finished  a  valse, 
She  said  "Just  like  Raymond,  but  HE  don't  play  false." 
I  asked  "Don't  you  think  John  McCormack  can  sing?" 
She  chortled  "Like  Raymond? 

Oh,  no,  not  like  Raymond, 
He'll  do,  but  my  brother's  the  regular  thing." 

Attila,  Ossian,  Elijah  and  Saul, 

Copernicus,  Newton  and  Peter  and  Paul, 

Elias,  Vespasian,  Brian  Boru, 

And  Lydia  Pinkham  and  Henry  Ford,  too, 

You  all  did  your  best,  but  the  best  that  you  did 

Would  never  feaze  Raymond, 

My  wife's  brother  Raymond, 
He'd  do  it  while  resting,  the  marvelous  kid. 


[481 


My  wants  they  are  few  and  they're  small  in  the  pod, 

I  long  not  for  acres,  not  even  a  clod, 

I  yearn  not  for  riches,  nor  hanker  for  fame, 

A  pot  now  and  then  is  enough  in  the  game, 

I've  just  one  ambition:  some  day  may  my  wife 

Compare  me  with  Raymond, 

Say  "You're  just  like  Raymond!" 
Then  I'll  die  content  —  I'll  have  made  good  in  life. 


f49l 


THE  BRILLIANT  ICEMAN 

I  used  to  think  my  iceman  was 

A  regular  Philistine, 
That  vegetable  ivory 

Composed  his  oblate  bean, 
That  he  was  sorter  balmy,  too, 

And  wormy  in  the  nut, 
A  cuckoo  in  the  coco  .  .  .  yes, 

I  used  to  think  this,  but .  .  . 

I  know  I  was  in  error  then 

When  foresaid  thoughts  I  thunk, 
When  'neath  that  rough  exterior 

I  saw  but  human  junk, 
When  I  mistook  his  purest  gold 

For  FeS2  dross, 
My  apprehension  was  at  fault  — 

He's  quite  another  hoss. 

My  iceman  has  an  intellect 

Of  most  stupendous  size, 
A  comprehension,  keen,  alert, 

A  vision,  broad  and  wise; 
And  from  his  pupils  shining  forth 

I  see  a  soul  that's  free, 
A  soul  of  pulchritude  and  worth 

And  rare  sagacity. 

Behind  his  broad  and  ample  brow 

There  sits  a  noble  nut 
That  rules  with  perspicacity 

His  cunning  occiput; 
How  do  I  know  that  he's  so  keen, 

Whom  once  I  thought  so  light? 
Well,  yesterday  I  heard  him  say 

He  likes  the  stuff  I  write. 

[50] 


LINES  TO  THOSE  QUEER  AND  CURIOUS  COOTS 
WHO  ROAM  THE  STREETS  IN  BATHING  SUITS 

I  do  not  know  why  you  should  stalk 
Along  the  boulevard  and  walk 
Arrayed  in  suits  that  unawares 
Reveal  the  trend  of  your  affairs  — 
I  do  not  know  why  this  should  be, 
It  surely  ain't  no  treat  to  me. 

The  bathing  suits  in  which  you  dress 

Are  nothing  much  and  mostly  less, 

And  as  you  saunter  to  and  fro 

A  lot  of  family  traits  they  show 

To  unappreciative  eyes 

Who  view  them  with  a  mild  surprise. 

Perhaps  you  have  the  inward  wish 

Your  anatomic  exhibish', 

Your  epidermical  display 

Will  sorter  steal  my  sense  away 

And  make  my  heart  go  pluck-a-pluck; 

If  such  you  wish,  you're  out  of  luck. 

Your  dripping  passage  down  the  street 

Does  not  excite  to  fever  heat, 

Your  coy  and  cute  cutaneous  splurge 

Impels  in  me  no  naughty  urge, 

The  moist  contagion  of  your  charms 

Would  lure  no  boys  from  off  the  farms. 

You  corpulent  and  sylph-like  coots 
Who  run  the  streets  in  bathing  suits, 
Your  rutilant  al  fresco  coives 
Are  anaesthetic  to  my  noives, 
My  brow  is  cool  and  dry  my  palm, 
I  view  you  with  exceeding  calm. 
Why  do  you  roam  so  far  and  free  — 
You  ain't  no  treat,  that  I  can  see. 

[51] 


LINES  TO  J.  P.  JUNIOR 

My  little  son, 

Your  sentence  on  this  earth  has  just  begun, 

You  have  a  long  and  toilsome  race  to  run, 

And  it's  but  fair  to  tell  you  here  and  now 

This  ain't  the  best  of  worlds,  no  way,  nohow; 

Because  you  have  it  pretty  soft  today 

You  think,  perhaps,  'twill  always  be  that  way, 

And  every  one  that  you  will  ever  know 

Will  be  as  good  to  you  as  Doctor  Stowe, 

But  listen,  bo,  it  isn't  so. 

The  world  ain't  built  on  no  such  gorgeous  plan; 

You'll  have  to  be  a  self-assertive  man, 

You  bet, 

And  fight  likehel  for  everything  you  get, 

And  light  all  spraddled  out  in  every  fray, 

For  life  down  here  is  not  a  holiday, 

And  he  who  totes  the  bacon  to  his  den 

Is  he  who  has  it  on  his  fellow  men. 

My  little  son, 

If  you  would  cop  the  daily  bread  and  bun 

Don't  figure  on  a  soft  and  soothing  time, 

There's  no  such  thing,  believe  this  simple  rime. 

You'll  find  existence  is  a  kind  of  bacon-biz, 

With  streaks  of  lean  and  fat 

And  this  and  that, 

Like  gloom  and  gladness,  salve  and  sop,  and  sting 

And  everything, 

And  people  lurking  on  the  thoroughfare 

To  take  you  in  and  also  unaware 

And  bounce  a  brick  where  you  divide  your  hair, 

And  friends  you'll  find 

Of  every  kind, 

The  false  and  true, 

And  of  the  former  lots, 

The  latter  few. 


[52] 


And  of  your  friends  you'll  find  before  you're  done, 
Your  first  will  be  your  best  and  truest  one, 
And  that  friend  is  your  mother,  little  son. 

My  little  son, 

The  goal  is  far  from  easily  won, 

The  road  is  long  and  hard  that  stretches  there, 

The  race  not  to  the  swift  but  to  the  fair; 

So  play  the  game  and  play  it  on  the  square. 

Then,  even  if  the  twilight  of  your  day 

Should  find  you  with  the  goal  still  far  away, 

You  need  not  care, 

For  better  than  the  goal  ignobly  won 

Is  the  race  that's  lost  but  still  was  fairly  run. 


[53] 


A  LIU  OL'  PORTERHOUSE  STEAK 

O,  the  Romans  of  old,  they  were  strong  for  the  eats, 

And  they  dined  upon  squab  from  Algiers; 
And  they  reveled  in  rivers  of  humming  bird  livers 

And  swordfishes'  fricasseed  ears. 
Each  p.  m.  at  2  they'd  have  nightingale  stew 

And  a  butterfly  bake  by  the  lake, 
But  sad  was  the  lot  of  these  guys  —  they  knew  not  of 

The  HI*  oF  porterhouse  steak,    Yes,  yes, 

Of  the  lil'  oF  porterhouse  steak. 

The  nosebags  Olympic  of  asphodel  fields 

Held  ambrosia  and  nectar  divine, 
A  heavenly  hash  with  a  Jovian  dash, 

But  I'd  scoff  at  such  fodder  for  mine! 
No  Paphian  pabulum,  sir,  could  suffice 

To  satiate,  surfeit,  or  slake 
The  keen  appetite  of  the  fortunate  wight 

Who  has  tasted  the  porterhouse  steak,    Aye!  Aye! 

The  lir  ol'  porterhouse  steak. 

A  HI*  oF  porterhouse  steak,  if  you  please, 

But  thicker,  a  trifle,  than  that, 
As  tender  as  Flora  and  pink  as  Aurora, 

With  nuggets  of  unctuous  fat; 
Please  broil  it  to  cage  all  the  juices  within  it  — 

(Don't  season  while  cooking!)  now  take 
Your  dreamy,  delicious  (but  highly  nutritious) 

Your  lir  olj  porterhouse  steak,     Ye  Gods! 

Your  lir  oF  porterhouse  steak! 

And  that's  why  I  zam  on  my  zither  today 

No  gross  Sybaritical  song, 
For  such,  ain't  it,  Mawruss?     I  leave  it  to  Horace 

And  Horace  is  there  with  it  strong; 
I  long  but  to  larrup  my  lyre  to  say 

That  Lucullian  eats  were  a  fake, 
And  I  back  by  all  odds,  sir,  that  food  of  the  gods,  sir, 

A  HI'  ol'  porterhouse  steak,     Yes,  yes, 

A  lil'  ol'  porterhouse  steak! 

[541 


A   MAN'S   BEST  PRESS  AGENT— HIS   MOTHER 

Oh,  others  may  chortle  and  call  me  a  failure, 

And  smile  while  I  gather  my  Lilliput'  pile, 
And  sneer  in  derision:  "That  clutter  of  kale  you're 

Annexing  is  puny  and  not  worth  the  while!" 
And  maybe  they're  right  when  they  say  I'm  no  demon, 

And  that  I  will  never  be  warmer  than  fair; 
Perhaps  they  are  right  and  perhaps  they  are  dreamin', 

But  mother  —  she  knows  I'm  a  regular  bear. 
Ah,  yes,  sir,  my  mother  just  KNOWS  I'm  a  bear. 

My  mother  is  sure  I'm  the  High  Cockalorum, 

That  I  am  the  Fount  and  the  Wellspring  of  Lore, 
When  she  is  around  I  am  sure  of  a  quorum, 

An  audience  she  whom  I  never  can  bore. 
The  others  get  tired  of  hearing  my  chatter, 

They  say  all  my  goods  were  deceased  on  the  shelf; 
They  call  me  a  flivver  —  but  that  doesn't  matter, 

My  mother  knows  diff'rent,  she  says  so  herself. 
Oh,  yes,  sir,  my  mother  will  tell  you  herself! 

My  voice  is  not  built  to  inspire  emotion  — 

Emotion,  that  is,  of  a  lovelier  kind; 
When  sicked  upon  others  they  leap  in  the  ocean, 

But  mother  just  loves  it  —  she  says  "it's  refined." 
I'm  not  a  Beethoven,  a  Shakspeare,  nor  Chaucer, 

Nor  even  a  Whistler  —  of  that  there's  no  doubt! 
But  did  they  do  anything  I  couldn't?     Naw,  sir! 

Just  take  it  from  mother,  she'll  tell  you  right  out! 
Just  listen  to  mother,  SHE'LL  tell  you,  old  scout. 

So  what  do  I  care  if  you  say  I'm  a  filbert? 

Oh,  what  do  I  care  if  you  censure  my  stuff? 
My  mother  has  told  me  I'm  better  than  Gilbert, 

She  says  in  comparison  Milton  is  guff. 
I  guess  I  should  bibble,  and  stew,  fret,  and  pine,  sir, 

Because  for  my  talents  the  people  don't  care. 
I  may  not  be  able  to  spear  what  is  mine,  sir, 

But  mother  believes  I'm  a  regular  bear; 
Yes,  mother,  God  bless  her!  just  knows  I'm  a  bear. 

[551 


GOD  GIVE  US  MEN! 

God  give  us  men  in  times  like  these: 
To  keep  our  flag  upon  the  seas, 
To  bring  it  through  that  warring  hell 
Of  screaming  steel  and  splintering  shell 
To  Victory  and  to  peace  again. 
God  give  us  men, 

God  give  us  men. 

God  give  us  men  in  times  like  these: 
No  craven  cowards  on  their  knees 
But  fearless  men,  erect,  four-square, 
With  hands  to  do  and  hearts  to  dare; 
Come  on!     Your  country  cries  again: 
"God  give  us  men, 

God  give  us  men!" 

"God  give  us  men  in  times  like  these," 

The  Stars  and  Stripes  shout  to  the  breeze; 
"Fearless  and  valiant,  terrible,  just, 
We've  never  trailed  in  the  bitter  dust, 
But  give  us  men,  or  else  we  must"  — 
Hark!     Tis  the  Stars  and  Stripes  again: 
"God  give  us  men, 

God  give  us  men!" 
April  6,  /p/7. 


[56] 


THERE  IS  NO  DEATH 

There  is  no  Death!    The  leaves  that  fade 

And  softly  drift  to  silent  doom 
Are  not  to  cold  oblivion  laid 

In  some  forsaken,  hopeless  tomb  — 
They  are  not  dead;  'neath  snow  and  rain 

They  live,  and  with  the  Spring's  first  breath 
All  glorified  they'll  come  again  — 

There  is  no  Death! 

There  is  no  Death!    The  boys  who  pass 

Like  falling  stars  in  glory's  glow 
Will  live  again  when  dewy  grass 

And  poppies  on  those  craters  grow; 
When  all  the  world  is  fair  and  free 

Because  they  gave  their  soul's  own  breath, 
They'll  live  in  millions  yet  to  be  — 

There  is  no  Death! 


157] 


A  JEREMIAD  ON  LAUNDRIES 

I  had  some  passionate  pink  pajams, 

Some  chromotogenous  hose, 
Some  tasty,  trim,  and  tricksy  ties, 

And  other  superlative  clothes; 
But  as  I  rode  the  kivered  cars 

O'erdark  my  clotheses  grewed; 
I  sent  them  to  a  laundaree  — 

If  I  had  only  knewed! 
For  today  I  got  my  bundle 

From  that  haunt  of  noisome  ill, 
And  inclosed  I  found  a  bunch  of  rags, 

A  button  —  and  a  bill! 

Chorus  — 

O,  shun,  my  son,  the  laundaree,  that  evil  omened  boid, 
For  a  laundry  is  a  place  you  send  your  clothes  to  be 

destroyed. 

I  had  a  snappy  Palm  Beach  suit  — 

It  snugly  draped  my  lattice, 
It  was  a  beatific  beaut'; 

But  hold!  Enough!  Jam  satis! 
I  loved  that  suit,  I  loved  that  suit, 

I  loved  it  like  a  son, 
I've  followed  the  hearse  of  all  my  hopes, 

I've  buried  them  one  by  one, 
For  to  a  demoniacal  laundaree 

I  sent  my  little  pard — 
Today  I  got  my  Palm  Beach  suit 

Upon  a  postal  card. 

Chorus  — 
O,   grewsome,   grim,   and   ghoulish  is  that  evil  omened 

boid, 
A  laundaree  —  that  place  you  send  your  clothes  to  be 

destroyed. 

[58] 


Of  noble  shirts  I  had  some  three, 

Each  sillik,  yes,  and  new, 
Of  lambent  luminosity 

And  opalescent  hue, 
A  polychromatic  pooh  pooree,* 

A  regular  solar  spectrum, 
A  gorgeous,  colorful  shivaree  — 

Buh-lieve  me,  I  select  'em! 
But  Oh,  one  shirt  grew  darkful, 

And  a  laundry  grabbed  it,  certes! 
Today  I  got  my  buttons  back  — 

I  don't  know  where  the  shirt  is. 

Chorus  — 
For  a  laundry  is  a  place  you  send  your  clothes  to  be 

destroyed, 
A  place  you  send  your  clothes  to  be  destroyed. 


*  Back  o'  th'  Yards  accent. 


[59 


A  WASHINGTON  D.  C.,  TRAGEDY 

It  was  a  private  soldier, 

In  Washington,  D.  C., 
Who,  dying  on  the  avenue, 

This  story  told  to  me; 
This  sad  and  wistful  story, 

This  narrative  of  gloom 
That  touched  upon  the  circumstance 

That  led  him  to  his  doom. 

"I  am  a  simple  private," 

He  murmured  unto  me, 
"And  I  am  the  only  private 

In  Washington,  D.  C. 
The  rest  are  first  lieutenants 

With  spurs  and  riding  boots 
And  all  day  long  theyVe  hounded  me 
To  give  them  some  salutes. 

"I  did  the  best  I  could,  sir, 

From  early  morn  till  night, 
I  worked  my  tried  and  trusty  arm 

For  every  "lieut."  in  sight. 
But  "Lieuts"  came  fast  and  faster 

And  more  and  more  and  more, 
And  nary  another  private  came 

To  help  me  with  my  chore. 

"And  now,  alas  I'm  dying  — 

I  could  not  stand  the  pace  — 
And  I  must  die  with  one  regret; 

There's  none  to  take  my  place .  .  ." 
His  voice  grew  faint  and  fainter  — 

"O  Gawd,  my  arm  is  sore, 
Tell  mother  .  .  .  Andrew  done  ...  his  ...  bit 
To  help  ...  to  win  the  .  .  .  war." 


[60 


£^»< 

L^Kx 

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^yyJtt*  •  •  W,*-i;--i%$3       fc^k&%&if         i>    |vitv?8?( 

ji  mm 


AN  IMPORTANT  EVENT 

I  was  fathoms  deep  in  cogent  cogitation, 

I  had  just  put  Old  Afflatus  on  the  mat, 
And  established  a  connection 
With  a  potent  retrospection 

Appertaining  to  and  touching  this  and  that; 
I  was  lost  I  say  in  lambent  lucubration, 

And  my  thinker  (yes,  it  is)  was  going  some, 
When  the  wife  rushed  in  a-crying: 
Stop  that  foolish  versifying, 

Come  and  look.     The  baby's  learned  to  suck  her 
thumb." 

And  the  message  she  exuded  it  was  truthful, 

And  the  words  were  gems  of  rare  veracitee, 
For  our  airy  little  fairy 
Had  unhinged  a  maxillary 

And  inserted  in  the  cunning  cavitee, 
Had  inserted  in  the  consequential  chasm, 

In  the  aperture  resulting  thusly  from 
Her  precocious  dilatation 
Of  her  means  of  mastication, 

Had  inserted  —  shall  I  say  it?    Yes!  —  her  thumb! 

You  may  wonder  that  I  gazed  in  admiration? 

You  may  marvel  that  I  stared  with  oh's  and  ah's, 
With  astonishment  prodigious 
As  my  cunning  little  squidjus 

Placed  her  thumb  within  the  province  of  her  jaws? 
But  I  tell  you  that  my  pride  is  most  preposterous, 

And  my  exhaltation  simply  strikes  me  dumb, 
I  just  stand  with  glowing  buzzum 
For  my  darling  fuzzum-wuzzum 

Has  discovered  how  to  suck  her  little  thumb, 
By  gum! 

The  little  slickerine  can  suck  her  thumb! 


[62] 


SOME  MUSINGS  ON  NATURAL  HISTORY 

Birds 

For  birds  I  entertain  a  care, 
I  like  the  way  they  take  the  air, 
Their  singing  soothes  my  inner  ear, 
And  I  am  pleased  when  they  appear 
In  crimson  feathering  and  blue, 
In  short  I  think  that  birds  will  do; 
But  they  eat  worms,  which  proves,  I'm  sure, 
Their  taste  is  far  from  epicure. 

Squirrels 

I  quite  approve  of  squirrels,  I  think, 
Although  I'd  much  prefer  them  pink; 
Their  teeth  are  sharp,  their  fur  are  soft 
And  nimbly  they  can  shin  aloft; 
But  I  can't  understand  why  they 
Should  chew  on  hard-shelled  nuts  all  day, 
When  they  could  find  much  softer  eats, 
Like  peas,  bananas,  soup  and  beets. 

Worms 

I  would  not  for  a  single  term 
Agree  to  underwrite  the  worm; 
The  way  he  rises  after  rains 
Is  proof  to  me  he  has  no  brains; 
For  he  is  stepped  on  in  his  flight 
Which  must  be  quite  distressing,  quite; 
Another  reason  why  I  think 
The  garden  worm's  a  silly  gink, 
His  chassis  is  assembled  wrong 
And  his  wheelbase  it  is  much  too  long. 

People 

People  are  nice,  but  then  I  fear 
There  are  too  many  people  here, 
When  one  would  watch  a  function  gay, 
They're  always  standing  in  your  way; 
And  when  in  need  of  much  repose 
They  park  themselves  upon  your  toes. 
I  think  they're  ordinary,  too, 
And  that  includes  myself  and  you. 
[63] 


THE  HIGHER  THE  BROW  THE  LESS  IT  SWEATS 

Sing  of  the  Bunions  of  Toil, 

Warble  the  Man  with  the  Hoe, 
Hokum's  according  to  Hoyle, 

But  gimme  the  Man  with  the  Dough! 
Gimme  the  Guy  with  the  Green, 

Gimme  the  Jay  with  the  Junk, 
Gimme  the  Shekels  Serene  — 

This  Bunions  of  Toil  is  the  Bunk. 

Hammer  your  lyre  to  bits, 

Warble  the  Luke  in  the  Loom, 
Sing  of  the  Corns  on  his  Mitts, 

But  gimme  the  Mighty  Mazum'! 
Gimme  the  Goof  with  the  Gold, 

Gimme  the  Toff  with  the  Tin. 
Hoes  may  be  noble  to  hold 

But  gimme  a  Five  in  the  Fin. 

Salt  is  the  Sweat  of  the  Serf, 

Scant  is  the  glory  he  gleans, 
His  toeses  are  out  on  the  turf, 

He  battens  his  belly  with  beans. 
Sing  you  the  Man  with  the  Hoe? 

Sing  him,  you  Sonuvagun! 
But  gimme  the  Man  with  the  Dough, 

Gimme  the  Guy  with  the  Mon. 


[64 


"NO,  NO,  DOWNTOWN,  POP-EYE, 
TAY  HOME" 

Each  morn  when  I've  ruined  some  ham  and  some  eggs 

And  stowed  'em  all  under  my  hatch, 
And  draped  the  remains  of  my  coat  round  my  legs 

And  crowned  with  a  kelly  my  thatch, 
I  say  to  my  daughter:  "Now,  Pop-eye  must  go, 

Downtown  to  his  work  he  must  roam, 
And  make  you  some  taters."     But  daughter  cries,  "No! 

No,  no,  downtown,  Pop-eye;  tay  home!" 

You'd  wonder  if  you  were  to  gaze  from  afar 

And  see  what  I  drew  for  a  face, 
Why  Dorothy  Mary  should  think  me  a  star 

And  cry  when  I'm  leaving  the  place. 
"I'll  say  that  he  sorter  oppresses  the  eyes," 
H  Would  peregrinate  through  the  dome, 
"It  ain't  for  his  beauty  that  Dorothy  cries: 

"  'No,  no  downtown,  Pop-eye;  tay  home.' ' 

It  ain't  for  his  beauty!    How  utterly  utt, 

Sagacious  and  keen  and  profound! 
But  what  do  I  care  if  I  look  like  a  mutt, 

As  long  as  she  likes  me  around? 
So  long  as  she'll  have  me  —  and  may  that  be  long,  — 

I  know  I  won't  hunger  to  roam, 
For  there's  just  a  wee  tear  and  a  pang  in  her  song: 

"No,  no,  downtown,  Pop-eye;  tay  home." 


[65] 


WE  MEET,  BUT  DO  NOT  SPEAK 

We  do  not  speak,  the  wife  and  I, 

We  meet,  but  do  not  speak; 
Our  one-time  happy  habitat 

Is  desolate  and  bleak. 
A  deep  sepulchral  silence  reigns 

Within  our  humble  hut, 
Where  lightsome  chatter  fluttered  once 

There  now  is  nary  flut. 

Perhaps  you  wonder  what  became 

Of  our  esprit  d'corps, 
And  why  vamoosed  the  dove  of  peace 

From  our  domestic  shore. 
If  so  your  wonder  cease  a  while, 

And  read  this  deathless  squeak, 
And  you  will  know  then  why  we  meet, 

And  pass  —  but  do  not  speak. 

Upon  a  lot  adjoining  us, 

A  lot  of  luscious  loam, 
I  planted  onions,  beets  and  things 

To  garnish  up  my  home, 
To  load  my  table  with  its  yield  — 

Its  succulent  and  bright 
Convention  of  comestibles 

Of  esculent  delight. 

One  fatal  day  wife  volunteered 

To  help  subdue  the  weeds, 
And  with  a  cruel,  vicious  hoe 

She  dug  up  all  my  seeds, 
And  cut  down  each  potato  stalk, 

Each  onion,  corn  and  leek, 
She  thought  them  weeds,  so  now  we  meet 

And  pass  —  but  do  not  speak. 


[66 


THE  FLU 

When  your  back  is  broke  and  your  eyes  are  blurred. 
And  your  shin-bones  knock  and  your  tongue  is  furred. 
And  your  tonsils  squeak  and  your  hair  gets  dry, 
And  you're  doggone  sure  that  you're  going  to  die, 
But  you're  skeered  you  won't  and  afraid  you  will, 
Just  drag  to  bed  and  have  your  chill; 
And  pray  the  Lord  to  see  you  through 
For  you've  got  the  Flu,  boy, 

You've  got  the  Flu. 

When  your  toes  curl  up  and  your  belt  goes  flat, 
And  you're  twice  as  mean  as  a  Thomas  cat, 
And  life  is  a  long  and  dismal  curse, 
And  your  food  all  tastes  like  a  hard-boiled  hearse, 
When  your  lattice  aches  and  your  head's  a-buzz 
And  nothing  is  as  it  ever  was, 
Here  are  my  sad  regrets  to  you, 
You've  got  the  Flu,  boy, 

You've  got  the  Flu. 

What  is  it  like,  this  Spanish  Flu? 

Ask  me,  brother,  for  I've  been  through. 

It  is  by  Misery  out  of  Despair, 

It  pulls  your  teeth  and  curls  your  hair, 

It  thins  your  blood  and  brays  your  bones 

And  fills  your  craw  with  moans  and  groans, 

And  sometimes,  maybe,  you  get  well  — 

Some  call  it  Flu  —  I  call  it  hell! 


[67] 


AN  IMAGIST  WOULD  CALL  THIS  "PALE 
PURPLE  QUESTION  DESCENDING  A  STAIRCASE" 

How  puerile  and  futile,  inept  and  inutile, 

How  profitless,  empty  and  stale, 
How  bootless  and  vain  and  how  drab  and  inane 

Is  our  life  in  this  vaporous  vale; 
We  rise  and  we  work  and  we  eat  and  we  drink, 

And  we  sleep  'till  it's  time  for  our  call, 
And  then  once  again  we  rise,  work,  eat  and  sleep  — 

And  what  is  the  use  of  it  all, 
At  all! 

Oh,  what  is  the  use  of  it  all! 

Oh  cosmic  monotony,  pallid  and  gray 

You  fill  me  with  exquisite  pain, 
For  always  the  nightime  is  followed  by  day 
And  Sunday  by  Monday  and  April  by  May, 

And  sunshine  by  tempest  and  rain, 
And  after  the  Winter  come  Spring  time  and  Summer, 

And  after  the  Summer  comes  Fall, 
And  after  the  Fall  come  Winter  and  Spring, 
The  same  old  routine,  deadly  thing! 

Oh,  what  is  the  use  of  it  all, 
At  all! 

Oh,  what  is  the  use  of  it  all! 

"No  sub-solar  novelty"  Solomon  said, 

And  Sol  was  precocity  plus. 
The  newest  inventions  (oh  blushes  dark  red!) 
Were  swiped  from  some  nations  unutterably  dead 

Who  swiped  them  from  others  —  cuss!  cuss! 
So  therefore  why  bustle,  get  het  up  and  hustle 

'Tis  useless,  for  Solomon  said  it; 
There  ain't  a  thing  new  that  a  live  one  can  do  — 

The  dead  ones  have  got  all  the  credit. 
And  now  leading  Pegasus  back  to  his  stall 

Oh,  what  is  the  use  of  it  all, 
Dog-gone ! 

Oh,  what  is  the  use  of  it  all. 

[68] 


A  LAMENTATION 

I  know  now  why  you  fletcherize  your  short  and  stubby 
toes, 

Why  you  prefer  to  slumber  on  your  kneecaps  and  your 
nose, 

And  why  you  find  a  pabulum  surpassing  in  your  thumb, 

And  why  you  always  holler  when  your  fodder  orter 
come, 

I  know  the  why  and  thusly  and  the  whence  of  every 
thing^ 

Excepting  this:  I  don't  know  why  you  like  to  hear  me  sing. 

My  voice  is  most  peculiar  because  it  runs  a  race 
Between  an  ice  cream  tenor  and  a  coco-cola  bass, 
And  when  I  trot  it  forth  in  song  the  doors  and  win 
dows  slam, 
And  neighbors  holler  something  —  I  believe  it's  Yubie 

Dam! 

The  city  has  requested  me  to  fumigate  the  thing, 
And  yet  (it's  almost  past  belief!)  you  like  to  hear  me  sing! 

With  cacophonic  clatter  through  the  keys  I  let  it  flap, 
It  skids  on  ev'ry  turn  and  has  a  blowout  ev'ry  lap, 
It  knocks  in  all  the  bearings  and  it  rattles  in  the  gears; 
No  wonder  that  the  neighbors  when  they  hear  it  burst 

in  tears. 
I  would  not  be  surprised  if  they  should  shoot  me  on 

the  wing, 
And  yet,  you  little  booberine,  you  like  to  hear  me  sing! 

Oh  yes,  I  hoped  that  you  would  learn  to   treat  pianos 

rough, 

And  bat  at  least  400  in  that  fa-so-lah-si  stuff; 
I  prayed  you'd  be  a  glutton  for  Beethoven  and  his  crew, 
But  all  my  fondest  fancies  now  have  flickered  up  the  flue; 
I    know   you'll   never   have   an   ear   for   music's   magic 

swing  — 

You'll  never  know  what  music  is  —  you  like  to  hear 
me  sing! 

[60] 


THOUGHTS  ON  A  BATHING  BEACH 

I  sit  upon  the  shining  sand, 

Beside  the  sounding  sea, 
And  sights  I  cannot  understand 

Come  flitting  o'er  the  lea, 
Ungainly  sights  which  give  me  pain 

In  my  anatomee. 

Long,  lean  and  lanky  gnarled  legs 
With  knots  upon  the  knees, 

And  trunks  like  piccolos  or  kegs 
Come  wafting  thru  the  breeze, 

And  arms  like  reeds  and  hands  like  hams 
I  gaze  on  all  of  these. 

Yon  woman  in  her  bathing  suit 

Upon  the  shining  sand, 
When  on  the  street  I  thought  her  cute, 

And  now  upon  the  strand — 
Where  are  those  lissome  luscious  curves? 

I  cannot  understand. 

And  yonder  man  —  if  man  it  is  — 

I  saw  him  yesterday, 
And  marveled  at  his  beauteous  phiz  — 

And  watched  his  shoulders  sway  — 
But  now  within  that  bathing  suit  — 

His  shoulders  —  where  are  they? 

And  so  upon  the  shining  sand, 

Beside  the  brimming  brine, 
I  sit  and  watch  those  ghastly  sights 

And  painful  thoughts  are  mine  — 
I  sit  and  wonder  why  it's  called 

"The  human  form  divine." 


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THE  CURE 

For  years  he  cursed  the  wicked  rich  in  horrid,  hectic 

tones; 
He  cursed  them  hide  and  fur  and  teeth  and  feathers, 

hair  and  bones; 
He  cursed  them  in  the  morning,  and  he  cursed  them  in 

the  night; 
He  panned  them  auburn,  blond,  brunette,  and  yellow, 

black  and  white. 
He  hated  them  and  all  they  had  with  a  hate  beyond 

compare  — 
He  hated  them  down  to  Hades  —  and  up  the  Golden 

Stair; 
But  an  uncle  died  and  left  this  guy  a  bunch  of  yellow 

ore, 
And  now  you  never  hear  him  curse  the  wealthy    any 

more. 

"The  plutocrats,"   he   used   to   say,   "have   ground   us 

down  and  out; 
They   scourge   us    to   disease    and   death    beneath    the 

bloody  knout; 
They  take  the  bread  from  out  our  mouths,   the  rags 

from  off  our  backs, 
And  live  the  while  in  mansions  grand  while  we  exist  in 

shacks. 
O,  curse  the  rich  and  all   they  have  and   those   that 

gave  them  birth; 
I    wouldn't    touch    a    cent   of   theirs    for    anything    on 

earth." 
But  an  uncle  died  and  left  this  guy  a  million  bucks  or 

more, 
And  I  have  got  it  pretty  straight  it  didn't  make  him 

sore. 

He'd  stand  beside  the  avenoo,  this  democratic  guy, 
And  shake  his  fists  at  limousines  as  they  went  crash 
ing  by; 

[72] 


He'd  curse  a  pants  that  had  a  crease  and  shoes  that 

had  a  shine. 

And  rave  at  lobsters,  caviar,  and  any  kind  of  wine. 
The    cognoscenti    he'd    condemn    and    hoi    polloi    he'd 

praise; 
You  have  no  faint  conception  of  the  H  —  1  he  used  to 

raise. 
But  an  uncle  died  and  left  him  many  flocks  of  golden 

ore, 
And,  strange  enough,  he  doesn't  curse  the  wealthy  any 

more. 


73 


GIRLISH  NERVE 

I  sorter  figgered  you  would  be 

Away  above  the  crowd, 
A  child  of  rare  supremacy 

Of  whom  I  could  be  proud. 

A  modest,  timid  little  maid 

I  pictured  you,  alack! 
But  all  my  dreams  are  rent  and  frayed  — 

You  call  your  daddy:  "Mac." 

The  only  children  I  have  got 

And  you  so  brash  and  bold, 
To  call  me  Mac  —  my  little  tot 

One  year  and  two  months  old. 

One  year  and  two  months  old  —  that's  all 

A  lady  you  should  be, 
Instead  of  that  you're  full  of  gall  — 

You  holler  "MAC!"  at  me. 

You  might  have  called  me,  daddy,  see? 

Or  pa,  or  even  pop, 
But  this  here  squawking  "MAC!"  at  me 

Has  simply  got  to  stop. 


I74l 


THE  PATIENT  PROXY 

When  butchers  send  us  tenderloin 

That's  anything  but  tender, 
A  hot  sulphuric  bawling  out 

The  missus  loves  to  render. 
She  shoots  a  sharp  and  searing  speech 

That  scorches  up  the  lea, 
But  the  butchers  never  hear  that  speech, 

She  tells  it  all  to  me. 

When  grocers  overcharge  us,  and 

I'll  say  that's  rather  "offen" 
My  bosom  pal  consigns  the  bunch 

Where  even  steel  would  soften. 
She  rips  them  up  and  down  the  keel  — 

Oh,  how  they'd  learn  to  fear  it 
If  they  just  heard  the  stuff  I've  heard, 

But  then  they  never  hear  it. 

Upon  my  poor,  unwilling  ears 

She  practices  each  sermon 
For  peddlers,  maids  and  grocery  boys 

And  other  kinds  of  vermin. 
Til  tell  them  this,  I'll  tell  them  that"  — 

Corrosive  is  her  chatter, 
But  when's  she'd  tried  it  out  on  me, 

That  always  ends  the  matter. 


(75l 


THE  JANITOR'S  GOOD  TO  HIS  FOLKS 

Slip  me  an  ear  while  I  sing  you  the  son  of  a 

Gun  in  the  cellar,  the  janitor  bloke, 
He  who  can  give  you  more  pain  in  the  run  of  a 

Season  than  vaudyville's  deadliest  joke. 
Down  in  his  catacombs,  taking  it  easy,  O! 
His  to  decide  if  he  soldiers  or  stokes, 
True,  you  may  freeze 
While  he  sits  at  his  ease  — 
But  isn't  he  good  to  his  folks? 

He  is! 
You  bet  he  is  good  to  his  folks! 

Oft  in  the  night  —  and  it  needn't  be  stilly,  sir  — 

You  will  awaken  with  ice  in  your  ears, 
Cold  is  your  craw  and  your  liver  is  chilly,  sir, 

But  snug  in  his  lair  the  janitor  cheers. 
Do  you  suspect  that  he  does  it  a-purpose,  O! 
Do  you  suppose  it  is  one  of  his  jokes? 
Letting  you  freeze 
As  a  sort  of  a  wheeze? 
Sure!  —  But  he's  good  to  his  folks, 

He  is! 
A  regular  bear  with  his  folks! 

You  can  just  gamble  your  bottom  simoleom 

He  and  his  brood  aren't  freezing  at  night; 
His  radiators  don't  flood  the  linoleum, 

His  gasometers  don't  clog,  and  read  right; 
His  light  connections  are  never  burned  out  for  him, 
His  garbage  goes,  and  his  laund(a)ry  soaks  — 
What?     It  ain't  fair? 
Gosh,  what  do  you  care 
So  long  as  he's  good  to  his  folks? 

My!  My! 
And  say!  Ain't  he  good  to  his  folks! 


76] 


So  that's  why  I  sing  you  that  lovely  old  son  of  a 

Gun  in  the  cellar,  the  janitor  guy, 
He  who  allots  you  more  pain  in  the  run  of  a 

Year  than  most  anything  under  the  sky; 
But  if  your  flat  is  cold  as  a  halibut, 

If  in  your  service  he  dallies  and  pokes. 
Recover  your  cheer 
By  repeating  this  here: 
Perhaps  he  is  good  to  his  folks. 

Ah,  yes! 
A  janitor's  good  to  his  folks! 


[771 


HONEST  CONFESSION  IS  GOOD 

When  I  return  late  from  the  clamorous  mart 

Or  a  bumper  in  yonder  cafe, 
Do  you  hurry  to  greet  me,  O  wife  of  my  heart, 

In  a  blithe  douglasfairbanksy  way? 
Do  you  greet  me,  my  own,  with  a  sibilant  kiss, 

Do  you  smile,  as  is  often  your  wont? 
The  truth,  I  must  say,  is  the  converse  of  this  — 

I'm  constrained  to  reply  that  you  don't. 

It  is  true  you're  a  portion  of  demitasse  size, 

But  your  wrath  is  terrific  plus  ten, 
And  when  I  offend  you,  you  swiftly  uprise  — 

And  gosh,  but  I'm  timorous  then! 
And  that's  why  I  quail  when  I'm  out  after  dark, 

And  I  sidestep  the  wassail  and  spree, 
For  you're  not  a  bit  bigger  than  Marguerite  Clark, 

But  you  look  like  Jack  Dempsey  to  me. 

I'm   afraid  of  your  glower,   and   I'm   skeered  of  your 
frown 

And  your  smile  that  is  cutting  as  steel; 
When  you  silently  give  me  that  cold  up-and-down 

It  congeals  the  whole  length  of  my  keel. 
And  when  each  bonny  eye  shows  a  deadly  disdain, 

I  just  audibly  quiv'  at  the  knee  — 
It  is  true  you're  no  bigger  than  Johnny  Kilbane, 

But  you  look  like  Jack  Dempsey  to  me. 


78] 


THE  BUNS  OF  NOTRE  DAME 

I  sing  the  buns  of  Notre  Dame, 

I  warb  their  beamish  beauty, 
I  chaunt  their  charms  with  heart  aflame, 

For  chaunting  is  my  duty, 
I  strum  for  all  her  shining  sons, 

Departed  and  aborning, 
Those  beamish,  beatific  buns, 

We  got  on  Sunday  morning! 

The  crust  an  aromatic  brown, 

As  fragrant  as  the  Indus, 
You  should  have  seen  us  shuffle  down 

As  much  as  they  would  sind  us. 
O,  coruscant,  collegiate  grub, 

O  pabulum  adorning 
The  platter  of  the  veriest  dub 

On  sunny  Sunday  morning! 

O,  Notre  Dame,  the  years  have  fled, 

Since  your  professors  caught  me, 
And  I  remember  but  your  bread, 

And  not  the  stuff  you  taught  me. 
Your  'isms,  'ologies  and  'ics, 

Were  nothing  to  be  scorning, 
But  what  are  'ologies  to  Micks 

With  buns  on  Sunday  morning? 

'Tis  true,  the  ancient  slickers  had 

A  lot  of  fancy  chefers, 
Ambrosia  was  a  snappy  fad 

Among  Olympic  zephyrs, 
But  for  their  fodder  and  their  fun  — 

Believe  a  gypsy's  warning  — 
I  would  not  trade  the  palest  bun 

We  got  on  Sunday  morning! 

[79 1 


A  COST  OF  LIVING  EPIC 

John  R.  Croesus  owned  a  clutter  of  mazuma  (slang  for 
dough), 

And  he  led  the  league  in  grabbing  off  the  dollars  long  ago, 

And  he  speared  the  shining  shekels  with  an  ambidex 
trous  fin, 

And  he  hunted  down  the  festive  tintinabulating  tin; 

But  his  pile  is  pale  and  puerile  when  compared  with 
that  of  mine, 

He  is  just  a  pica  piker  and  a  tin  horn  and  a  shine, 

I  am  richer  now  than  Crcesus  ever  dreamed  that  he 
could  be  — 

I've  a  genuine  potato  and  it  all  belongs  to  me! 

Alexander  Henry  Midas  was  the  transmutative  guy, 
With  alchemic  mitts  he  juggled  ev'ry  thing  that  met 

his  eye, 

With  goboons  of  gelt  to  gratify  his  smallest  wish  or  whim, 
You  might  say,  as  in  a  whimsy,  life  was  touch  and 

go  (Id)  for  him. 

For  indeed  he  had  a  multitude  of  cunning,  curly  kale, 
And  he  had  it  by  the  bushel  and  the  barrel  and  the  bale, 
But  I  hold  I  have  him  faded,  more  plethoric  is  my  roll — 
I  am  now  the  sole  possessor  of  a  genuine  piece  of  coal! 

Sing  me  not  the  wealth  of  Inca,  El  Dorado,  or  Cathay, 
Fair  Golconda,  General  Motors,  U.  S.  Steel,  or  Wheat 

of  May, 

Tell  me  not  of  John  D.,  Morgan,  Alcibiades,  or  Schwab, 
Captain  Kidd,  the  Guggenheimers  —  mention  not  one 

single  slob, 
For  these  puny  penny  snatchers  could  not  match  my 

hoard  immense, 
They  resemble  phony  testoons  —  and  a  testoon's  thirty 

cents! 

I  am  richer  than  a  magnate,  private  banker,  or  a  yegg, 
For  I  own  controlling  interest  in  an  onion  and  an  egg. 


[80] 


THE   BURN   YE   CREE 

(As  we  say  at  the  club) 

The  council  committee  on  health  has  directed  the 
health  commissioner  to  draw  up  an  ordinance  to 
enforce  sanitary  conditions  in  "hot  dog"  stands,  pop 
corn,  ice  cream,  and  peanut  dispensaries. —  News  item. 

I  eat  prophylactic  pretzels 

On  an  antiseptic  dish, 
Served  with  pure  selective  shad  roe 

From  a  choice  eugenic  fish; 
I've  deodorized  my  onions, 

And  I've  filtered  all  my  cheese  — 
But  a  sanitary  hot  dog? 

Don't  insist  upon  it,  please! 

All  my  prunes  are  disinfected, 

I  have  mundified  my  clams, 
Ventilated  all  my  liver, 

And  decrassified  my  hams; 
All  my  bacon  is  abstergent, 

Carbolated  to  the  bone; 
But  I  ask  you  like  a  brother  — 

Leave  my  dogs  of  peace  alone! 

Oh,  I'm  death  on  protozoa; 

As  for  germses,  sir,  I  hate  'em; 
I  ain't  clubby  with  bacilli, 

And  I  love  to  castigate  'em. 
I'm  the  katabolic  kiddo 

At  this  pathogenic  game; 
But  I  love  my  dogs  al  fresco, 

Alee  samee,  alee  same! 


81] 


TO  A  TWENTY  MONTH  OLD  TRAMP 

Our  home  is  not  a  marble  hall 

With  tesselated  floors  and  things, 
No  Gobelin  doodads  on  the  wall, 

No  porticos  and  massive  wings; 
No  butlers  buttle  in  the  flies, 

No  footmen  foot  around  the  lea, 
But  just  the  same  it  satisfies 

Your  ma  and  me. 

We  do  not  scorn  our  humble  home, 

Although  it  ain't  no  mansion  gay; 
We  do  not  gallivant  and  roam 

Around  the  streets  the  livelong  day. 
We  love  to  sit  and  rest  our  feets 

Beneath  our  almost-copper  lamp, 
But  you  would  rather  bum  the  streets, 

You  little  tramp. 

All  day  you  gad  around  the  yard 

And  waste  your  time  in  useless  play, 
While  me  and  ma  are  working  hard 

To  get  your  fodder  day  by  day; 
But  when  the  shades  of  evening  drop, 

Do  you  come  home  from  out  the  din? 
You  don't!     It  almost  takes  a  cop 

To  bring  you  in. 

Our  home,  I  know,  is  not  a  spot 

Of  monumental  size  and  style, 
But  still  it  has  that  vacant  lot 

And  dusty  alley  beat  a  mile. 
But  if  you  differ,  little  cuss, 

Let's  compromise  the  thing,  i.e., 
Come  in  and  spend  the  nights  with  us, 

Your  ma  and  me. 


[82 


LINES  TO  AN  AMATEUR  CORNETIST 

CCI  blow  in  it  so  sweet  and  it  comes  out  so  sour!" 

—  Weber  and  Fields, 
Across  the  vacant  lot  from  me 
A  young  man  sits  in  ecstacy, 
And  on  the  evening  air  he  flings 
From  his  cornet  a  lot  of  things 
That  might  be  music,  sweet  and  gay, 
If  only  he  would  learn  to  play. 

And  yet  he  tries,  I'll  say  for  him, 
He  tries  with  vigor,  verve,  and  vim; 
Each  dewy  eve,  each  blushing  morn 
He  tells  his  troubles  to  that  horn, 
Which  sympathizes  with  his  woe 
And  raises  h  —  1,  I'd  have  you  know. 

But,  reader,  do  not  garner  here 
That  I  am  crabbed,  cross,  and  queer, 
Disliking  "Music,  Heavenly  Maid," 
In  blissful  harmonies  arrayed. 
I  could  not  love  her  as  I  do 
If  I  could  stand  this  other,  too. 

And  yet  the  sad  and  sour  cry 
This  horn  outpours  against  the  sky 
Would  not  embitter  me  in  full 
If  only  it  would  cease  to  pull 
The  national  air  at  night,  when  I 
Have  gone  to  bed  in  sleep  to  lie. 

"O,  say,"  he  bugles,  "can  you  see?" 
At  twelve  o'clock  at  night  to  me, 
And  here's  the  way  the  anthem  goes 
-0 — k~ , r— J- 


And  here's  the  way  my  neighbor  blows. 


So  I  must  stand  most  all  the  night 
Before  he  finally  gets  it  right. 

For  months  and  months  I've  been  the  dupe 

Of  this  outrageous  cornu-coup, 

And  all  the  milk  of  human  zest 

Is  clabbered  in  my  aching  breast.  .  .  . 

He's  going  to  play  a  harp  real  soon 

(And  I  bet  he'll  play  it  out  of  tune!) 


A  CHICAGO  NIGHT'S  ENTERTAINMENT 

Once  upon  a  midnight  dreary, 
(Gentle  reader  grow  not  leary, 
This  is  not  a  blank  and  bleary 

Paraphrase  of  Eddie  Poe), 
I  was  sunk  in  silent  slumber 
When  across  the  lea  did  lumber 
Forty-eight  or  some  such  number 

Singing  cats  who  row  on  row 
Smote  the  welkin  bookoo  wallop 

With  their  fa-so-la-si-do. 

On  the  fence  beside  the  alley, 
Hopped  a  fair  and  feline  Galli 
With  a  Stracciari  pal-y 

And  they  did  a  vocal  chore. 
And  while  serenading  for  us 
With  a  cacophonic  chorus 
Tuneful  Tommies  treaded  o'er  us 

Looking  for  some  lost  Lenore. 
Who,  to  judge  their  ullulations, 

They'd  discover  nevermore. 

"Cats,"  I  cried,  "Your  lyrics  grieve  me, 
Pray  disperse,  begone,  and  leave  me 
Get  thee  hence  before  I  heave  me 

Missiles  till  you're  sad  and  sore. 
You've  no  idee  what  my  rent  is, 
Nor  have  I  of  what  your  bent  is, 
Only  you're  non  compos  mentis 

And  I  hate  you  to  the  core; 
Get  thee  back  to  South  Chicago 

And  return  to  us  no  more." 

But  they  gave  no  sign  nor  token 
That  my  sentiments  outspoken 


86] 


Through  their  rhythmic  souls  were  soakin* 

While  their  songs  they  did  outpour. 
Higher  soared  their  chant  and  higher, 
Till  I  rose  in  vengeful  ire 
And  I  smote  one  gay  Mariah 

Full  upon  her  esprit  d'corps. 
And  they  stood  not  on  the  order 

Of  their  going  from  my  door  — 
And  I've  seen  them  .  .  . 

Nevermore ! 


[87! 


WARNING! 

Of  cunning  tricks  you  have  a  store, 

But  one  of  them,  I'm  finding  now, 
I  do  not  like  no  way,  no  more, 
No  how. 

No  sweeter  baby  in  the  block, 

Than  you,  you  darling  little  gem, 
But  why  arise  at  four  o'clock 
A.  M.? 

At  first  I  thought  it  cute  and  pert 

For  you  to  stand  up  in  your  crib, 
And  sing  your  matins,  little  squirt, 
Ad  lib. 

But  it  has  ceased  to  be  a  joke, 

Some  how  I  cannot  smile  again, 
You  give  me  a  distinctly  loc- 
Al  pain. 

Where  do  you  get  this  fatal  flaw? 

This  early  rising  heresy? 
You  didn't  get  it  from  your  Maw, 
Nor  me! 

Some  deadly  atavistic  shock 

Has  warped  your  being,  root  and  stem, 
Else  why  awake  at  four  o'clock 
A.  M.? 

No  grouch  am  I,  nor  yet  a  crank, 

But  you  have  put  me  on  the  blink  — 
You  cut  it  out  or  Paw  will  spank 
You  pink. 


(88] 


A  DIPLOMATIC  MOVE 

My  Missus  is  a  lovesome  thing 

When  she  is  feeling  gentle, 
Her  smile  is  as  the  smile  of  Spring 

Upon  the  lowly  lentil; 
She  sympathizes  with  my  woes, 

She  soothes  me  when  I'm  puny, 
And  bears  with  me  although  she  knows 

I'm  cracked  and  also  loony. 

My  Missus  is  a  lovesome  thing, 

My  verse  she  DOES  admire, 
She  always  lets  me  have  my  fling 

(God  help  him,  he's  a  liar!) 
My  guide,  philosopher  and  friend 

In  every  quirk  and  quand'ry, 
And  never  does  she  fail  to  send 

My  collars  to  the  laundry. 

My  Missus  is  lovesome  thing, 

She  comforts  and  caresses 
And  only  in  the  Fall  and  Spring 

She  buys  expensive  dresses; 
A  gracious  wife,  a  regular  pal 

And  cute  as  Mary  Minter  .... 
(I  hope  this  verse  will  square  me  up 

For  banqueting  all  winter.) 


WISTFUL  WORDS  TO  DOROTHY 

Yes,  I  have  a  small  request  or  two  to  ask  you 

That  touch  upon  and  appertain  as  well 
To  curious  demonstrations  of  affectionate  relations 

With  your  brother  who  has  come  with  us  to  dwell, 
And,  knowing  how  ungraciously  you  listen, 

I'm  just  a  trifle  diffident  and  shy, 
But  in  spite  of  apprehension, 
This  request  I'm  bound  to  mention: 

Please  do  not  poke  your  brother  in  the  eye, 
In  the  eye, 

Please  do  not  poke  your  brother  in  the  eye. 

It  is  quite  inconsequential  I  will  grant  you, 

A  trivial  little  episode,  I  know, 
And  scarcely  worth  the  bother 
Of  this  pert  parental  pother 

But  I'm  bound  to  set  the  limits  you  can  go, 
Or  otherwise  you  might  by  easy  stages 

Advance  to  letting  heavy  missiles  fly, 
And  swat  your  little  brother 
On  some  vital  spot  or  other, 

So  I  ask  you,  do  not  poke  him  in  the  eye, 
In  the  eye, 

Please  do  not  poke  your  brother  in  the  eye. 

By  the  by,  it  just  occurs  to  me  to  mention: 

The  picture  which  you  make  en-route  for  bed, 
Quite  a  bit  of  beauty  loses 
When  you  stop  to  bounce  your  shoeses 

On  the  apex  of  your  sleeping  brother's  head. 
It  is  not  the  lack  of  sisterly  affection 

As  afforded  by  this  index  I  decry, 
And  for  more  important  reasons 
Than  the  chance  of  fatal  lesions, 

Here's  the  rub:  the  cost  of  shoes  is  mighty  high, 
Mighty  high! 

P.  S. —  Don't  poke  your  brother  in  the  eye. 

[90] 


WORDS  AND  MUSIC  BY  A  MUSKRAT 

I  do  not  feel,  nor  ever  felt 

That  this  my  own,  my  native  pelt, 

My  coy,  cutaneous  carapace 

Is  cluttered  up  with  charm  and  grace; 

In  fact,  I  think  the  following  thunk: 

The  doggone  thing  looks  pretty  punk. 

Some  higher  fate,  I'm  told,  decides 

What  animules  shall  wear  in  hides; 

The  silver  fox  has  flossy  fur 

That  sells  at  many  thousand  per; 

The  sable  gets  a  toney  skin 

That  takes  some  husband  for  his  tin. 

The  mole,  the  dark  and  devious  mole, 
Has  got  a  hide  that  costs  a  roll, 
But  what  have  I?    A  measly  pelt 
That  isn't  worth  an  ounce  of  gelt. 
I  would  not  wear  it,  were  it  not 
The  only  hide  what  I  have  got. 

And  yet  I'm  told  that  women  wear 
My  hide  for  coats  most  everywhere, 
My  awful  looking  epiderm' 
Is  quite  the  thing  this  winter  term  — 
I  wish  you'd  tell  me  why  they  do, 
I  cannot  dope  it  out,  can  you? 


91] 


THANKSGIVING  DINNER  SONG  WITH  AN  EYE 
FOR  THE  SOARING  PRICES  OF  FOOD 

I'll  have  microscopic  turkey, 

And  a  Lilliputian  pie, 
Served  with  evanescent  taters 

That  will  flee  the  naked  eye; 
Imperceptible  my  olives, 

Inappreciable  my  ices, 
And  they'll  carve  my  pigmy  pudding 

In  emaciated  slices. 

I'll  have  legendary  dressings 

On  imaginary  dishes; 
Chimerical  my  oranges, 

Intangible  my  fishes, 
The  cakes  all  purely  abstract, 

And  nebulous  the  nuts, 
With  kernels  of  "howevers" 

And  "perhapses"  "ifs"  and  "buts." 

Amorphous  ducks  and  pickles 

And  phantastic  sweet  potatoes, 
Hypothetical  confections, 

Suppositional  tomatoes; 
But  I'll  enjoy  my  dinner, 

Though  it's  largely  postulation, 
For,  Lord  be  praised!  He's  given  me 

A  good  imagination. 


[92  J 


"POO  POO"  SAYS  YOU 

I  held  high  hopes  that  you  would  be 

A  credit  to  your  ma  and  me, 

That  some  fine  day  we'd  point  with  pride 

To  you,  a  lady,  dignified, 

And  sweet  and  kind  and  all  that  stuff, 

Instead,  you're  getting  pretty  tough. 

For  when  we  give  you  sage  advice 

And  try  to  teach  you  to  be  nice, 

You  scorn  our  counsel,  kind  and  true; 

Says  you, 
"Poo  poo!" 

We  try  to  teach  you  not  to  smear 
The  morning  egg  in  either  ear, 
We  say,  "Now  baby,  don't  do  that, 
It  ain't  de  riguer  in  a  flat." 
But  you  ignore  our  counsel  fair 
And  rub  the  remnants  in  your  hair, 
And  all  the  satisfaction  we 
Can  get  from  you,  that  I  can  see 
Is  just  two  words  and  sassy  too; 
"Poo  poo" 
Says  you. 

Too  poo"  to  ma;  "poo  poo"  to  me, 
No  matter  what  our  words  may  be, 
No  matter  how  sagacious,  fine 
Your  mother's  counsel  .  .  .  yes,  or  mine; 
We've  tried  to  fetch  you  up  correct, 
But  good  results  I  can't  detect, 
And  now,  when  we  would  mend  your  ways, 
You  treat  us  like  a  pair  of  jays, 
To  all  commands  and  counsel,  too, 
"Poo  poo" 
Says  you. 


[93] 


MY  CONGRESSMAN 

I  know  I  have  a  Congressman 

In  Washington,  D.  C. 
For  now  and  then  he  comes  around 

To  get  a  vote  from  me; 
He  proudly  shakes  me  by  the  hand 

And  asks  about  my  needs, 
And  when  he  goes  to  Washington 

He  sends  me  garden  seeds. 

Whenever  there's  a  bill  for  which 

I'd  like  to  have  him  vote, 
I  trust  in  him  and  tell  him  so 

By  telegram  or  note; 
And  he  gets  every  one,  I  know, 

And  every  one  he  reads, 
For  always  when  the  Spring  has  came, 

He  sends  me  garden  seeds. 

The  other  day  I  wrote  to  him 

"We  put  our  faith  in  you 
To  make  the  League  of  Nations  safe 

If  Wilson  puts  it  through." 
His  answer  came  right  back  to  me: 

"Appreciate  your  needs  .  .  . 
Am  sending  in  tomorrow's  mail 
Some  lovely  garden  seeds." 

I'm  glad  I  have  a  Congressman 

In  Washington,  D.  C., 
His  legislative  efforts  there 

Mean  Oh  so  much  to  me! 
He  is  my  representative, 

For  me  his  bosom  bleeds, 
And  always  when  the  Spring  has  came 

He  sends  me  garden  seeds, 
Radishes  and  lettuces, 
Tomatoeses,  cucumberses, 

Such  lovely  garden  seeds! 


[94] 


iSreg^jaSssSSiBi 


CONSERVING  MOTHERS 

I  often  hear  some  long  haired  guy, 
In  wild  and  frenzied  anguish  cry, 
"Conserve  the  food,  or  else  we'll  die, 

Some  way  or  other; 
Come  make  each  mother  strive  and  try 

It's  up  to  mother. 

"If  there  is  any  work  to  do, 
An  egg  to  fry,  a  lamb  to  stew, 
A  bun  to  bake,  a  drink  to  brew, 

Let  mother  brew  it; 
And  if  the  wash  is  needing  blue  — 

Let  mother  blue  it. 

"Let  mother  rassle  with  the  tub, 
Let  mother  wash  and  rinse  and  rub, 
Let  mother  sweep  and  scald  and  scrub 

With  wild  elation; 
Let  mother  do  it  —  that's  the  nub! 

'Twill  save  the  nation!" 

Oh,  every  day  I  hear  'em  rave: 
"The  vista's  dark,  the  outlook  grave, 
Expense  we  must  cut  and  shave 

To  save  the  day,  sir: 
Let  mother  skimp,  conserve  and  save 
In  every  way,  sir." 

But  I  protest  against  this  crew. 
Why  leave  it  all  for  her  to  do? 
Conserving  is  the  job  for  you 

And  me  and  others, 
I'm  going  to  start  conserving,  too  — 

Conserving  mothers. 


96] 


LINES  BY  A  HORSE  ON  A  BITTER  COLD  DAY 

Beside  me  to  the  curb  you're  rolled, 
And  warm  fur  robes  around  you  cast, 

While  I,  uncovered,  shake  with  cold 
In  blinding  snow  and  chilling  blast; 

But  I  should  be  resigned,  of  course; 

You  are  a  flivver  —  I'm  just  a  horse. 

And  it  is  right  that  robes  of  fur 

Be  wrapped  around  your  fragile  form, 

For  injury  you  might  incur 

If  left  uncovered  to  the  storm  — 

While  I  will  be  immune,  of  course, 

I'm  not  a  car  —  I'm  just  a  horse. 

And  standing  naked  all  day  long, 

In  wintry  winds  that  cut  like  steel, 

Is  good  for  horses,  who  are  strong  — 
But  I  confess,  some  grief  I  feel 

That  I  was  assembled  by  the  Lord: 

I  wish  it  had  been  Henry  Ford. 


[971 


THE  SWEET  DRY  AND  DRY 

They  tell  me  this  here  prohibish' 
Is  good  for  fowl  and  flesh  and  fish, 
That  countless  blessings  ooze  and  flow 
From  flirting  with  the  H  2  O, 
And  highballs  made  of  rain  and  dew 
Are  very  good  for  me  and  you.  .  .  . 
Well,  mebbe  so, 
I  dunno. 

They  say  it's  wrong  to  oil  our  gears 
With  ales  and  lickers,  wines  and  beers, 
That  in  the  subtle  Scotch  and  Rye 
A  host  of  tribulations  lie 
And  all  the  world  will  better  be 
For  sipping  sody,  pop  and  tea ... 
Well,  mebbe  so, 
I  dunno. 

The  grape-juice  babies  tell  us  birds, 
With  many  hand-embroidered  words, 
That  we  must  drink  instead  of  beers 
This  stuff  that's  put  around  the  piers  — 
They  call  it  water,  now,  I  think, 
But  is  the  darn  stuff  fit  to  drink? 
Well  .  .  .  mebbe  so, 
I  dunno. 

What  will  the  seltzercooties  do 
When  they've  eliminated  brew? 
Why  smokes  and  songs  will  follow  rum, 
Then  candy,  cheese  and  chewing  gum, 
They'll  make  the  world  so  kind  and  sweet, 
That  life  will  be  a  wondrous  treat. 
Well,  mebbe  so, 
I  dunno. 

[98] 


WIM,  WIGOR  AND  WICTORY  WERSE 

"You  cannot  keep  a  good  man  down," 

Remarked  some  noble  mutt, 
Malicious  dornicks  tossed  at  him 

May  crenulate  his  nut, 
Outrageous  slings  and  arrows  trun 

By  fortune  ill  may  pot  'em, 
But  you  cannot  keep  the  good  men  down, 

You  can't  keep  cream  on  the  bottom. 

The  deftly  wielded  double-cross 

May  catch  you  on  the  hip 
And  toss  you  on  your  vertebrae, 

But  don't  desert  the  ship; 
The  anvil  crew  may  lay  for  you 

But  never  mind,  dod  rot  'em! 
The  big  league  man  can't  lose  his  nan, 

Cream  won't  stay  on  the  bottom. 

"You  cannot  keep  a  good  man  down," 

As  Jonah  told  the  Whale, 
Within  his  Webster's  unabridged 

There's  no  such  word  as  fail; 
Such  men  come  smiling  from  the  floor 

Where  uppercuts  have  sot  'em, 
As  I,  perhaps,  remarked  before 

You  can't  keep  cream  on  the  bottom. 


99J 


THERE  AIN'T  NO  CURE  FOR  GOLF 

(Written  after  reading  a  news  story  in  which  a  doctor 
advocated  golf  as  a  cure  for  the  inmates  of  insane 
asylums.) 

Oh  the  freaky,  foolish  filbert  can't  be  bettered 
By  swatting  pesky  pellets  'round  a  lot; 

There's  a  cure  for  any  coco, 

That  is  flooey,  cracked  or  loco, 
But  a  cure  for  guys  who  golluf  there  is  not, 

There  is  not! 
A  cure  for  guys  who  golluf  there  is  not. 

Merry  mediocos  meticulously  messing 
Around  the  haunts  of  cuckoo  conks  have  got 

A  squad  of  pills  and  bitters 

That  will  cure  the  goofy  critters 
But  a  cure  for  guys  who  golluf  they  have  not, 

They  have  not! 
A  cure  for  guys  who  golluf  there  is  not. 

Oh,  the  onion  that  is  batting  in  the  minors, 
The  medulla  oblongata  gone  to  pot, 

May  be  traced  to  indigestion 

And  be  cured  beyond  a  question 
But  a  cure  for  guys  who  golluf  there  is  not 

Not!  Not! 
A  cure  for  guys  who  golluf  there  is  not. 

There's  nepenthe  for  the  bean  that  waxes  balmy, 
For  the  coco  that  is  cuckoo  they  have  got. 

Simple,  bolus  and  elixir, 

That  are  guaranteed  to  fix  'er, 
But  a  golluf  panacea  there  is  not, 

There  is  not! 
Oh  a  golluf  panacea  there  is  not. 

[100] 


So  I  ask  you  like  a  brother,  Mr.  Doctor, 

Don't  let  the  filberts  mashie,  putt  or  swat, 
There  are  salves  enough  b'golly 
For  the  skwerl  who's  off  his  trolley, 

But  a  cure  for  guys  who  golluf  there  is  not, 
Alas!    no! 

A  cure  for  guys  who  golluf  there  is  not. 


1  ioi  i 


THE  MUSKRATEER 

As  'round  the  loop  I  daily  snoop 

I  see  a  curious  sort  of  goop, 

All  toggled  out  and  walking  in 

Some  fair-haired  muskrat's  favorite  skin, 

All  wrapped  in  it  from  knee  to  ear 

She  walks,  this  curious  Muskrateer. 

And  oh,  it  dessicates  my  mirth 
To  see  how  things  are  run  on  earth, 
How  little  muskrats,  dipped  in  dew, 
Must  give  their  hides  to  cover  you, 
The  only  hides  they  ever  had  — 
Just  thinking  on  it  makes  me  sad. 

And  yet  when  gazing  here  and  there 
A  Muskrateer  that's  passing  fair 
Anoints  my  orb  with  winsome  wile 
And  I  am  forced  to  muse  the  while 
And  say,  "They  killed  you,  muskrat,  eh? 
But  gosh,  you're  still  in  luck,  I'll  say!" 


1 102  j 


THE   LITTLE   QUAKER   MAID   REMARKS: - 

It's  wrong  for  men  to  watch  me,  still, 

I  like  it. 
They  follow  me  against  my  will, 

I  like  it. 

They  say  such  pretty  things  to  me, 
I  know  it's  wrong  as  wrong  can  be, 
I  should  not  listen,  but  you  see 

I  like  it. 

Sometimes  to  hold  my  hand  they  try, 

I  like  it. 
I  do  not  understand  just  why 

I  like  it. 

They  say  that  I  am  pretty,  too, 
I  know  I  should  not  think  that's  true, 
But  what's  a  little  girl  to  do? 

I  like  it. 

They  call  me  "Little  Quaker  Maid," 

I  like  it. 
They  softly  say,  "Art  thou  afraid?" 

I  like  it. 

They  whisper  sweetly  in  my  ear 
A  lot  of  things  I  should  not  hear, 
I'm  a  naughty  little  girl, —  Oh,  dear, 

I  like  it. 


LINES  TO  A  SAXAPHONE 

You  blear,  barbaric  beast, 

I've  often  heard  you  moan, 
And  passionately  pant  and  sigh, 

And  gargle,  grunt  and  groan, 
I've  heard  you  stammer,  heard  you  sneeze, 

I've  listened  to  your  neigh, 
I've  heard  you  cough  and  snort  and  wheeze, 

But  I've  never  heard  you  play. 

I've  heard  you  crow  all  night, 

And  gurgle,  spit  and  squeak, 
I've  heard  you  nicker,  heard  you  bark 

And  squall  and  scream  and  shriek; 
I've  heard  you  hiccough,  heard  you  howl, 

And  listened  to  your  bay, 
I've  heard  you  grumble,  heard  you  growl, 

But  I've  never  heard  you  play. 

I've  heard  your  gutteral  gamut 

With  the  accent  on  the  gutter, 
I've  speared  your  suspirations 

And  I  hate  the  noise  you  utter; 
I  have  heard  you  bleat  and  blather, 

I  have  heard  you  bawl  and  bray, 
Heard  you  worked  up  to  a  lather  — 

But  I've  never  heard  you  play. 


[104 


I   DO  NOT  CARE 

I  do  not  care  how  grand  the  stones 
They  rear  upon  my  weary  bones, 
How  costly  be  the  wreathes  they  lay 
Above  my  poor,  unworthy  clay, 
Nor  what  they  say  about  me  there, 
I  do  not  care. 

I  do  not  care  how  sad  the  hymn 
That  fills  the  solemn  aisle  and  dim, 
How  lofty  and  impressive  be 
The  sounding  service  meant  for  me, 
How  long  and  fervent  be  the  prayer; 
I  do  not  care. 

Just  this  is  all  I  ask  the  day 
I  take  the  silent  road  and  gray; 
That  on  my  simple  stone  they  hew: 
'Some  little  children  loved  him,  too"  , 
What  else  they  write  about  me  there 
I  do  not  care. 


[105] 


LINES  TO  A  CAFETERIA  OR  GLOM-SHOP 

(After  Byron) 

The  Aisles  of  Grease!     The  Aisles  of  Grease! 

Where  feeders  trip  it  to  the  trough, 
And  grab  their  chance  to  glom  a  piece 

Of  fodder  for  the  mid-day  scoff, 
(And  scoff,  I'd  have  you  savvy,  is 

The  scientific  term  for  chow) 
O,  Aisles  of  Grease,  you  do  some  biz; 

Kid  Byron  ought  to  see  you  now. 

At  noon  we  hook  our  shining  tray 

And  shake  a  light  fantastic  toe, 
To  give  your  ensilage  a  play, 

To  win,  to  place,  likewise  to  show; 
On  either  side  the  victuals  lie: 

We  spear  them  with  a  practiced  hand, 
The  shy,  seductive  Cheese  on  Rye, 

The  blushing  Egg,  the  blithe  Ham-And. 

The  Pot  Roast  with  the  Spuds  en  bloc, 

The  Oysters  on  the  Demi-Hull, 
The  Porcine  Wrist,  the  Kindred  Hock, 

The  Caviar  Emptor  (get  me,  cull?) 
The  salad  a  la  K  of  C. 

(Potato  salad?)  Thatta  boy! 
The  Movie  (custard)  Pie,  ah!  me! 

The  Aisles  of  Grease  are  full  of  joy. 

The  Aisles  of  Grease!    The  Aisles  of  Grease! 

I've  walked  among  your  trodden  ways, 
And  found  a  gastronomic  peace 

That  beggars  pleonastic  phrase; 
Redundant  rhymes  and  verbose  verse 

Your  beamish  beauties  may  not  tell: 
As  Chaucer  says,  "You  aint  so  worse," 

As  Swinburne  says,  "You  sure  are  swell." 

[106] 


A  'ORRIBLE  'YMN  OF  'ATE 

Of  pernicious  protoplasms 

I  have  known  some  goophy  runts 
Who  have  druv  me  into  spasms 

With  their  irritating  stunts; 
And  of  pestilential  persons 

And  exasperating  eggs, 
I  have  mingled  with  the  worse'  uns 

I  have  drained  the  bitter  dregs. 

There  are  people  who  say  "lookit" — 

Whom  I  hate  unto  the  core, 
For  the  word  I  cannot  brook  it 

I  could  glory  in  their  gore; 
There  are  people  who  say  "listen" 

Whom  I'd  madly,  gladly  kill  .  .  . 
But  the  super-pest  is  this  'un 

In  my  categoric  bill. 

Ah,  that  pest  of  pests  I  meet  him 

Near  my  domiciliar  hut, 
And  some  morning  I  shall  greet  him 

With  a  wallop  on  the  nut, 
I  shall  greet  him  and  no  other 

With  a  sweet,  resounding  smack, 
For  he  always  calls  me  "Brother," 

And  he  slaps  me  on  the  back. 


[108] 


THE  STRANGER 

"Who's  that  stranger  Mother,  dear? 
Look!  he  knows  us,  ain't  he  queer?" 

"Hush  my  own,  don't  talk  so  wild; 
He's  your  father,  dearest  child." 

"He's  my  father?  no  such  thing; 
Father  died  away  last  Spring." 

"Father  didn't  die,  you  dub, 
Father  joined  a  golfing  club. 

"But  they  closed  the  club,  so  he 
Has  no  place  to  go,  you  see, 

No  place  left  for  him  to  roam, 
That  is  why  he  is  coming  home." 

"Kiss  him  ...  he  won't  bite  you,  child 
All  them  golfing  guys  look  wild." 


[109] 


A  PARENTAL  ACCOMPLISHMENT 

There's  little  in  my  head  but  pains, 

No  balance  in  my  mental  bank. 
When  someone  handed  out  the  brains 

I  drew  a  blank, 
And  yet  my  coco  deftly  toys 

With  stunts  that  certain  genius  takes; 
I've  learned  to  understand  the  noise 

My  daughter  makes. 

When  first  she  said  "Gee  gee  boo  woo" 

It  didn't  mean  a  thing  to  me, 
But  now  it's  easy  to  construe 

Her  code,  e.g. 
"Gee  gee"  I've  learned  is  "Genevieve" 

And  "Boo  woo"  is  a  dog  —  or  cat  — 
It  takes  a  genius,  I  believe, 

To  figure  that. 

"Dow  dow"  is  "down"  and  "gug"  is  "egg," 

But  "gug  gug  gug"  in  this  refrain 
Means  "Give  me  breakfast,  shake  a  leg, 

Or  I'll  raise  Cain." 
"Ray  ray"  is  Rachael,  "hup"  means  "Come 

And  warm  my  milk  and  get  my  chair." 
"Mac  mac"  is  me,  her  mother's  "Mum"  — 

I'll  say  I'm  there! 

For  though  I  have  a  loft  to  let 

Unfurnished,  too,  and  rather  dark, 
At  learning  dorothyeese,  you  bet, 

I'm  quite  a  shark; 
My  conk  a  solitude  enjoys 

But  my  one  stunt  a  genius  takes; 
Translating  all  the  kinds  of  noise 

My  daughter  makes. 


no  ] 


MY  BOYHOOD  HERO 

The  hero  of  my  boyhood  days 

(As  near  as  I  recall) 
Was  not  Aladdin,  Charles  the  Great, 

Nor  Brian  Boru  nor  Paul, 
Nor  Socrates  nor  William  Tell, 

Nor  Hannibal  a-tall. 

But  he  who  claimed  my  fealty 

And  undivided  cheers, 
Whose  form  I  see  as  I  retrace 

The  trail  of  vanished  years, 
Was  a  boy  I  used  to  know  in  school, 

Who'd  learned  to  wag  his  ears. 

I  never  longed  when  I  was  young 

To  own  a  massive  brain, 
Nor  lead  a  million  men  to  war 

Nor  sail  the  Spanish  main, 
Nor  roam  the  world  from  pole  to  pole 

For  honor  or  for  gain. 

No  wistful  wishes  such  as  these 

Excited  me  to  tears, 
One  thing  alone  I  yearned  to  find 

Within  my  span  of  years  — 
I  only  prayed  that  I  some  day 

Would  learn  to  move  my  ears. 

P.S.—  I  have. 


[in] 


AINT  IT  THE  TRUTH? 

You  have  a  nice  assortment 

Of  stratagems  profound 
That  you  are  always  showing  off 

When  no  one  is  around. 
But  when  a  visitor  arrives 

To  whom  we've  sung  your  praise, 
You  are  a  small  but  perfect  boob, 

In  fifty-seven  ways. 

When  we're  alone,  you're  awful  smart 

And  stunts  you  have  a  score. 
You  know  a  coupla  scales  by  heart 

And  sing  them  o'er  and  o'er; 
You  dance  with  airy,  fairy  grace 

When  we're  alone,  somehow, 
But  when  a  stranger's  in  the  place, 

You're  graceful  like  a  cow. 

I  tell  my  friends  how  cute  you  are, 

Ingenious,  clever,  keen, 
I  praise  you  as  a  youthful  star, 

I  boost  your  childish  bean; 
And  when  they  come  in  gangs  and  herds 

To  see  your  wondrous  tricks, 
And  hear  your  coruscating  words, 

Your  brains  are  mostly  nix. 

It  isn't  right,  it  isn't  fair, 

It  saps  our  vim  and  gimp, 
We  always  bill  you  for  a  bear 

And  you  turn  out  a  simp; 
And  when  my  friends  have  slunk  away 

You're  clever  as  of  yore, 
I  tell  them  ...  but  they  sadly  say, 
"We've  heard  that  stuff  before." 

[112] 


THE  MAIDS 

One  by  one  they  come  and  go, 
Thin,  sebaceous,  nimble,  slow, 
Every  hue  and  every  style, 
Come  to  visit  us  a  while, 
Come  to  bring  us  some  new  sorrow, 
Here  today  and  gone  tomorrow. 
When  you  think  that  one  is  true 
She  has  beat  it  P  D  Q. 
One  by  one  they  come  and  go, 
Ain't  it  so? 

One  by  one,  an  endless  string, 
Summer,  autumn,  winter,  spring, 
Minnie,  Mable,  Hilda,  Sue, 
Bridget,  Carrie,  Lily,  Lou, 
Now  and  then  a  prize  appears 
(Once  in  every  hundred  years). 
But,  alas,  they  never  stay, 
Neighbors  lure  them  kind  away, 
Curse  the  fiends  who  stoop  to  such, 
We  have  never  done  it  (much), 
But  the  good  ones  they  are  few, 
Ain't  it  true? 

One  by  one  they  come  and  flee, 
What  a  curse  it's  got  to  be! 
Every  week  another  cove 
Cranking  up  the  kitchen  stove; 
Some  just  couldn't  if  they  would, 
Others  wouldn't  if  they  could 
And  the  latest  one  to  call 
Always  is  the  worst  of  all. 
Will  it  never,  never  cease? 
Will  we  ever  get  some  peace? 
Them  are  mighty  harsh  words,  Nell, 
But  ain't  it  hell! 

[113] 


A  FELLER  NEVER  CARES  ABOUT 
THE  OTHER  FELLER'S  KID 

When  loving   fathers  rush   to   me  with   high  lights   in 

their  glims, 
And   prattle   of  their   cunning   hers    and   supercunning 

hims, 

How  booful  lil  Squijums  is  a  fool  for  orange  juice, 
How   she   can   hold   her  head  straight  up   and   warble 

like  Cams', 
How   soon    she   learned   her   toeses    are   impervious    to 

munchin' — 
When  on  her  back  how  cutely  she  rolls  over  on  her 

luncheon  — 

0  when  a  loony  father  comes  and  blabbers  thus  to  me 

1  counter  with  a  lecture  on  my  cunning  progenee! 
Why  shouldn't  I  ignore  the  tricks  his  little  shaver  did? 
A  feller  never  cares  about  the  other  feller's  kid! 

When    youthful    fathers    come    to    me    with    chests    of 

wondrous  size, 
And   tell  me  what  their  offspring  did  I   do  not  feign 

surprise, 
I   do   not   arch   my   brows   a   bit,   I   do   not   catch  my 

breath, 
The  crudest  thing  my  kiddy  does  has  got  'em  skinned 

to  death! 

I  do  not  even  listen  as  they  strum  the  golden  strings — 
I    may   say    "Yes?"    or    "Ain't    that    nice!"    or   other 

friendly  things; 

A  smile  of  sweet  benevolence  may  decorate  my  dial, 
But  just   the  same  my  innards  may  be  coming  to   a 

"bile." 
Why  should  I     get  excited  over  what  his  young  'un 

did? 
A  feller  never  cares  about  the  other  feller's  kid! 


[114] 


You  protoplasmic  papas  with  the  flabbergasting  geeks, 

I've  listened  to  your  gibber  now  for  many  weary  weeks. 

You  may  have  thought  you  stunned  me  with  the 
wonders  you  unveiled. 

When  I  was  merely  hatching  up  a  scheme  to  have  you 
jailed; 

You  may  have  thought  I  listened  when  you  told  me 
of  your  brat  — 

But  I  was  merely  hankering  to  swat  you  on  the  slat! 

O  save  your  blather  while  you  may,  it  isn't  any  use  — 

You  bull  for  your  bambino,  but  I  pull  for  my  pa 
poose  — 

You'll  never  get  a  rise  from  me  on  what  your  snoodles 
did, 

For  a  feller  never  cares  about  the  other  feller's  kid! 


Ins] 


WHEN  BILLY  SPEAKS 

When  Billy  speaks, 

Gesticulates  and  chins  the  bar  and  shrieks 

At  Beelzebub  and  all  his  impish  geeks 

He  does  it  pretty  swell, 

He  does 

Becuz 

His  langwidge  has  a  strong,  sulphuric  smell  — 

He  knows  how  to  give  the  devils  h  —  1 ! 

(And,  on  the  level, 

What  more  appropriate  gift  to  give  a  devil?) 

When  Billy  speaks 

He  grabs  our  murky  conscience  by  the  breeks 

And  beats  it  to  a  palpitating  pulp 

While  Satan  runs  around  and  hollers  "Hulp!" 

And  all  the  minor  devils,  bales  on  bales, 

All  sit  around  a-holding  of  their  tails, 

Emitting  curdling  cries  and  woozy  wails, 

For  Billy's  put  their  business  on  the  blink: 

The  sinful  goop 

Escapes  the  coop, 

Escapes  the  toils  of  sin  and  all  that  stuff, 

He  hits  the  trail,  the  narrow  trail  and  rough, 

Forswears  the  ice  cream  den  and  Hinky  Dink, 

The  cunning  cognescenti  and  the  classes, 

The  devilish  demitasses, 

And  all  the  vicious  lure  of  choc'late  sody 

He  passes  up  for  Billy  and  for  Rody. 

When  Billy  speaks 

To  all  us  sinful  geeks 

We  brighten  up  the  corner  where  we  are 

In  case  it  ain't  the  corner  of  a  bar, 

And  start  the  Glidden  tour  to  Heaven's  gate 

(Though  some  of  us  get  started  rather  late  — ) 

[116] 


At  least  we  start  the  tour, 

Of  that  we're  pretty  sure, 

And  though  we  may  not  reach  the  first  control, 

When  Billy  speaks  we  think  we  see  the  goal; 

An  easy  goal  to  reach, 

If  we  forswear  the  movie  and  the  beach, 

The  gumdrop  and  the  chocolate  eclair, 

Banana  splits,  the  wicked,  sinful  snare, 

And  if  we  conscientiously  forbear 

To  dance  or  sing  or  shout,  except  in  prayer, 

Salvation  then  will  come  to  all  us  geeks; 

At  least  that's  what  I  glean 

When  Billy  speaks. 


[117 


THE  VILLAGE  BLACKSMITH  REVISED 

Under  the  spreading  chestnut  tree 

The  village  smith  may  stand 
And  hammer  with  his  sledge  till  he 

Has  bunions  on  his  hand, 
And  rivulets  of  perspirash 

Meander  o'er  his  phiz. 
I  envy  not  his  occupash 

Nor  hanker  for  his  biz. 

Week  in,  week  out,  from  morn  'till  night, 

He  sits  beneath  his  tree 
And  flivvers  pass  him  in  their  flight, 

Sweet  Land  of  Flivverty! 
And  he  is  full  of  meaty  might, 

Of  wigor,  werve,  and  wim, 
But  there  is  not  a  horse  in  sight 

Except  the  horse  on  him. 

He  sees  beside  his  chestnut  tree 

The  flivvers  fly  pell-mell, 
He  wishes  very  earnestly 

That  they  would  go  to — grass, 
For  they  have  put  him  on  the  bum, 

And  likewise  on  the  fritz, 
And  there  he  sits  and  sits  and  sits 

And  sits  and  sits  and  sits. 


fii8] 


*•••• 


IN  WHICH  WE  CONSIDER  STRIKES 

It  was  a  pleasant  evening, 

Old  Kaspar's  work  was  done, 
He  was  a  walking  delegate, 

Likewise  a  sonuvagun. 
'It's  pretty  dull,"  he  said  to  me; 
'I  guess  I'll  call  a  strike,"  said  he. 

'But  strikes  are  awful  things,"  said  I, 

"They  cause  a  lot  of  woe. 
When  calling  strikes  no  doubt  that  you 

Have  cause  for  doing  so?" 
To  me  he  made  this  strange  reply: 
'I  do  not  need  a  reason  why. 

'When  times  are  good  I  call  a  strike 

Because  I  think  I  should, 
When  times  are  bad  I  call  a  strike 

Because  they  are  not  good." 
'Why  do  you  call  one  now?"  I  cried. 
'There  ain't  no  reason,"  he  replied. 

So  from  their  prosperous  pleasant  jobs, 

Old  Kaspar  called  his  men, 
And  after  they'd  been  out  awhile 

He  sent  them  back  again. 
And  the  strikers  muse  and  say,  "Be  gee, 
Why  is  it  called  a  Victory?" 


1 120] 


LINES  ON  THE  REAL  CHRISTMAS  SPIRIT 

Within  the  last  short  week  or  so 

The  world  has  changed,  I'd  have  you  know. 

The  maid  is  always  here  on  time, 
Her  work  is  neat,  her  eats  sublime; 

The  janitor  is  sweet  and  gay, 
He  even  gave  us  heat  today; 

The  milkman  doesn't  tramp  the  stairs, 
Or  holler  like  a  flock  of  bears; 

The  grocery  boy  is  too  polite, 
For  him  it  doesn't  seem  just  right; 

The  mailman  on  his  morning  rounds 
Greets  me  and  mine  with  pleasant  sounds; 

The  elevator  man  is  kind, 

The  office  boy  has  learned  to  mind; 

My  yearly  smile  today  I  smiled; 
I  found  my  papers  neatly  filed; 

Oh,  why  are  they  so  pleasant, 

And  serve  me  with  a  thrill? 
They  think  they'll  get  a  present, 
A  lovely  Christmas  present  — 
They're  sure  they'll  get  a  present  — 

And  they  will. 

(Maybe.) 


H2lJ 


A  LETTER  TO  SANTA  CLAUS 

Dear  Santa  Claus:  I   take  my  pen 

In  hand  tonight  to  write 
A  list  of  things  you  must  not  bring 

My  girl  on  Monday  night; 
A  list  of  gifts  that  we  will  treat 

As  deadly  contraband  — 
Of  which  we  strongly  disapprove, 

For  which  we  will  not  stand. 

You  must  not  bring  my  girl  a  drum 

For  she  makes  noise  enough, 
Or  dolls  with  sawdust  giblets,  for 

She  can't  digest  the  stuff; 
Don't  bring  her  colored  fairy  books, 

I  ask  you  for  her  sake  — 
She  finished  one  a  month  ago 

And  got  the  tummy  ache. 

We  draw  the  line  on  wooden  blocks, 

She  drops  them,  as  she  goes, 
Where  I  can  step  on  them  at  night 

And  break  my  fragile  toes, 
Or  else  she  lightly  tosses  them 

Through  sundry  window-panes  — 
Where  they  can  fall  on  passersby 

And  spatter  out  their  brains. 

Don't  bring  her  gooey  candy  sticks  — 

She  puts  them  in  my  hat 
Or  toy  balloons  —  she  jumps  on  these, 

Or  ties  them  to  the  cat. 
If  you  must  bring  her  Christmas  gifts 

Then  bring  a  nobler  kind, 
The  sort  of  gift  that  stirs  the  soul 

And  elevates  the  mind. 

[122] 


Bring  classic  statues,  cunning  brass, 

And  art  profound  and  chaste; 
Bring  tomes  of  amaranthine  verse  — 

Let's  cultivate  her  taste. 
She's  eighteen  months  of  age  today  - 

The  age  to  start  her  right; 
That's  why  I  take  my  pen  in  hand 

To  write  to  you  tonight. 


A  CHRISTMAS  THOUGHT 

His  ears  were  torn  and  tattered, 
And  furrows  ridged  his  neck; 

He  looked  just  like  the  Hesperus, 
Our  most  successful  wreck, 

Or  like  the  little  boy  who  paused 
Upon  the  burning  deck. 

"What  battle  were  you  in,"  I  cried, 
"That  you  should  look  this  way? 
Were  you  in  Rheims  or  Wipers 

Upon  some  flaming  day, 
Or  were  you  fighting  on  the  Marne? 
O,  tell  me,  sir,  I  pray." 

"You've  got  me  wrong,"  he  whispered; 
"I  joined  no  fighting  crew, 
I  never  shelled  a  submarine 

Upon  the  briny  blue. 
It  must  be  quiet  though,  compared 
To  what  I've  just  been  through." 

Said  I:  "You  have  mislaid  an  ear 
And  dropped  a  nose  somewhere, 

And  through  your  rents  and  apertures 
The  sun  is  shining  fair  — 

And  all  this  happened  over  here, 
And  not,  sir,  over  there?" 

He  bowed  his  poor  dismantled  head 

And  softly  did  he  say: 
"The  ones  who  took  me  all  apart 

And  done  me  up  this  way 
Were  forty  thousand  women,  sir, 

Who  shopped  on  me  today." 


[124] 


INDEX 

Page 

A  Chicago  Night's  Entertainment  86 
A  Christmas  Thought  124 
A  Cost  of  Living  Epic  80 
A  Diplomatic  Move  89 
A  Feller  Never  Cares  About  the  Other  Fel 
ler's  Kid  114 
Ain't  It  the  Truth  112 
A  Jeremiad  on  Laundries  58 
A  Lamentation  69 
A  Letter  to  Santa  Claus  122 
A  Lil'  OF  Porterhouse  Steak  54 
A  Man's  Best  Press  Agent  —  His  Mother  55 
A  Modern  Romance  34 
An  Imagist  Would  Call  This  "Pale  Purple 

Question  Descending  a  Staircase"  68 

An  Important  Event  62 

A  'Orrible  'Ymn  of  'Ate  108 

A  Parental  Accomplishment  no 

A  Plea  for  Chicago  Husbands  37 

A  Slam  on  Slams  43 

A  Washington  D.  C.  Tragedy  60 

Bawp-Bawp-Bawp-Bawp-Pa  27 

Beware  of  the  Geezer  With  Something  to  Sell  16 

Bitter  Lines  to  a  Non-Skid  Auto  Salesman  32 

Conserving  Mothers  96 

Getting  Even  38 

Girlish  Nerve  74 

God  Give  Us  Men  56 

Gosh,  How  We  Dread  It  18 

Honest  Confession  is  Good  78 

I  Do  Not  Care  105 

In  Which  We  Consider  Strikes  120 


[125] 


INDEX— Continued 

Page 

Lines  by  a  Horse  on  a  Bitter  Cold  Day  97 

Lines  of  Entreaty  to  Friend  Wife  42 

Lines  on  the  Real  Christmas  Spirit  121 

Lines  to  a  Cafeteria  or  Glom-Shop  106 

Lines  to  a  Movie  Vampire —  12 

Lines  to  a  Saxaphone  104 

Lines  to  an  Amateur  Cornetist  84 

Lines  to  an  Old  Schoolmate  19 

Lines  to  J.  P.  Junior  52 

Lines  to  Summer  Furs  41 

Lines  to  Those  Queer  and  Curious  Coots  51 

My  Boyhood  Hero  in 

My  Congressman  94 

My  Wife's  Brother  Raymond  48 

Never  Argue  with  a  Woman  44 

"No,  No,  Downtown,  Pop-eye,  Tay  Home"  65 

"Poo  Poo"  Says  You  93 

Preparedness  Plus  25 

Remarks  on  Baby  Shoes  33 

Showing  Up  the  Cartooners  29 

Some  Musings  on  Natural  History  63 
Thanksgiving  Dinner  Song  With  an  Eye  for 

the  Soaring  Price  of  Food  92 

That's  a  Gift  13 

The  Brilliant  Iceman  50 

The  Buns  of  Notre  Dame  79 

The  Crime  Wave  46 

The  Cure  72 

The  Durn  Ye  Cree  (As  We  Say  at  the  Club)  81 

The  Flu  67 

The  Girls  of  Today  28 

The  High  Cost  of  Licker  39 

The  Higher  the  Brow  the  Less  it  Sweats  64 

The  Janitor's  Good  to  His  Folks  76 

The  Language  of  Childhood  24 


[126] 


INDEX— Continued 

Page 

The  Little  Quaker  Maid  Remarks  103 

The  Maids  113 

The  Muskrateer  102 

The  Patient  Proxy  75 

The  Player  Piano  Upstairs  21 

The  Song  of  the  Movie  Vamp  40 

The  Stranger  109 

The  Sweet  Dry  and  Dry  98 

The  Village  Blacksmith  Revised  118 

The  Wifie's  Nose  for  News  30 

There  Ain't  No  Cure  for  Golf  100 

There  Is  No  Death  57 

Thoughts  on  a  Bathing  Beach  70 

To  a  Straw  Caubeen  20 

To  a  Twenty  Month  Old  Tramp  82 

To  Let  —  Tenant  Will  Show  22 

Warning  88 

We  Meet,  But  Do  Not  Speak  66 

Well,  Mebbe  So  —  I  Dunno  26 

What  the  Average  Man  Thinks  36 

When  Billy  Speaks  116 

When  the  Missus  Goes  Away  n 

When  Wifie  Drives  14 

Wim,  Wigor  and  Wictory  Werse  99 

Wistful  Words  to  Dorothy  90 

Words  and  Music  by  a  Muskrat  91 


[127 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  T 

STAMPED  BELO 


DA: 


AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL  BE  ASSESSED  FOR  FAILURE  TO  RETURN 
THIS  BOOK  ON  THE  DATE  DUE.  THE  PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  SO  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY  AND  TO  $1.OO  ON  THE  SEVENTH  DAY 
OVERDUE. 


,_.      NOV  22  1933 

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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRA'RY 


